


Life Writes Its Own Stories

by Estelle (Fielding)



Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Newspaper AU, Slow Burn, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-29
Updated: 2019-10-05
Packaged: 2020-09-28 22:37:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 62,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20433617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fielding/pseuds/Estelle
Summary: Amy Santiago is a Brooklyn crime reporter eager to break the big story. Jake Peralta is a cynical NYPD detective who trusts no one. If they can get over themselves, they may figure out they’re on the same side. An Amy/Jake newspaper AU.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to my obsession! I have been fixated on this story for the past two months and am so happy to finally be posting it. A note to readers wary of multi-chapter fics: This story is complete. I will be updating every two to three days as I revise and polish chapters along the way, but I promise it is done.
> 
> I am incredibly grateful to the amazing @drowninginmyworries (@fezzle) for her help with this story: as a beta, a cheerleader, a title-brainstormer and a friend. She offered invaluable feedback that changed the whole tenor of this story, in a way that I think made it so much better. I am so lucky to have found her.

Amy took the subway stairs two at a time and sprinted into the bright morning sunshine, slowing down just enough to glance down at the cell phone in her hand and check the time. She was already one minute late.

“Damnit,” Amy said under her breath and picked up her speed again, waving over her shoulder at the taxi that honked when she darted through the traffic on Bergen. She took the turn onto 6th Avenue so fast that she had to flail her arms to keep her balance, then she put her head down and raced. She ran right up to the front entrance of the 99th Precinct and slammed to a stop, gasping for breath.

“Press conference is delayed,” said the cameraman standing beside her. “Nice day, huh?”

Amy glared at him and he laughed. It was approaching triple digits and the humidity was well over 80 percent and she could feel sweat pooling in her lower back and under her breasts. She plucked at the front of her blouse where it was stuck to her chest. At least she wasn’t late.

The other reporters were spread out in a loose ring around the front of the precinct, most of their faces familiar to Amy. There were three TV journalists, a couple of radio folks, the guy from the online newsletter who was at literally every event in Brooklyn – Amy could never tell how he managed it – and, to her surprise and displeasure, reporters from The Times and the Daily News. And she’d thought her day was already a mess – now this story was competitive.

Amy undid her ponytail and tied her hair into a slightly more secure bun, glad to get a little more air on her neck. She took out her phone again and opened the voice recording app, then pulled out her notebook and her favorite pen and her two backup pens, which she shoved into the pocket of her skirt. She was just checking her email when the precinct doors swung open and Captain Pembroke stepped out, followed closely by Scully and a handful of other cops. The reporters surged forward as one, arms thrust out with cell phones and other recording devices. Amy hit “record” on her phone and stacked her notebook on top so she could jot down every word, just in case.

“We made an arrest in the Adams case,” Pembroke said without preamble, in the same smug voice he used for every interaction with the press, no matter how grave the news. “Last night, we took Keith Jones, fiancé of Judy Adams, into custody…”

Amy took down the name of the suspect and then paused, listening as Pembroke went over all the details of the case. She was still a little confused as to why he’d called a press conference. This wasn’t an especially remarkable case, other than that the dead woman was young, blond and beautiful. (Amy had actually spent a weird amount of time studying her eyeshadow to try to figure out how she got such a fantastic daytime smoky-eye.) She’d been found strangled in Prospect Park last weekend, and for a day or so there had been concerns in the community that she was attacked by a stranger preying on women, which was probably why The Times and the Daily News were here. But that didn’t explain why the NYPD was holding a press conference.

Pembroke droned on for a while but he didn’t have much new to say – Amy had already been tipped off about the fiancé by Scully – and when he finally asked for questions, Amy let herself be nudged back by the other reporters as they yelled out their follow-ups. She glanced down at her phone, debating if she could stop recording, when a voice whispered in her ear.

“Ask about the ex.”

Amy jerked and looked back over her shoulder. A man was standing right behind her. He had dark tousled hair and he was wearing sunglasses and a plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Amy thought, out of nowhere, ‘He has nice forearms.’ He also had a detective badge around his neck.

“What did you say?” she said.

The detective nodded toward Pembroke. “Ask him about the ex-boyfriend.”

Amy gaped at him for a moment, then turned back to Pembroke, who was smirking in a self-satisfied way at the assembled journalists -- which, again, was not anything new.

“Peralta!” a voice called out.

Amy looked back over her shoulder just as the detective did the same. He glanced once more at Amy, mouthed “the ex” very dramatically, then turned on his heel and walked away.

One of the TV reporters asked if a wedding date for the dead woman and her fiance had been scheduled and Pembroke said, “That’s a stupid question, we’re done” and made for the front door. The reporters let him go, and Amy ducked through the scattering pack of them. She reached Pembroke just as he was pushing open the precinct door.

“Captain?” Pembroke turned and looked her up and down, slowly. Amy felt her skin crawl and she cleared her throat. “Amy Santiago. With the Brooklyn Bulletin. What can you tell me about Judy Adams’ ex-boyfriend?”

Pembroke’s face went suddenly hard and he narrowed his eyes. “Why? Who told you about him?”

“No one,” Amy said, quickly. “Just, I heard there was an ex and I wondered if he was a suspect.”

Pembroke stared at her long enough to make her uncomfortable, then muttered, “No comment” and disappeared into the precinct.

+++

Amy worked the story the rest of the day. A quick look on Facebook confirmed that Judy Adams did have an ex-boyfriend, and he was a cop who worked out of Queens. She tracked down family and friends and talked to the fiance’s lawyer and even got Scully to slip up and tell her that Judy had once taken out a restraining order on her ex. Finally, with just half an hour before deadline and on a last-ditch whim, she called the jail to ask if anyone with the ex-boyfriend’s name was there, and the answer was yes. He’d been booked on murder charges that very afternoon. After Amy confirmed that the birthdate and city of residence of the inmate were the same as the ex-boyfriend – she’d seen it happen before, people with the same name getting confused in the media – she topped off the article and sent it to Terry, who ran it by Holt.

They made the deadline.

“That was good work, Santiago,” Holt said later, after asking her to stop by his office.

The story was Amy’s first big scoop, and Holt had never praised her before, not even a nod the first time she made the front page. She tried to school her face into a professional facade, though based on how much her cheeks hurt from containing her grin, she probably just looked insane.

“I can’t believe they were going to try to pin the murder on her fiancé,” she said, forcing herself to sound cool and casual.

“I doubt they were going to hold him for long.” Holt leaned forward and folded his hands under his chin. “My guess was they wanted to distract us with the fiancé, then let the story blow over for a few days before they arrested the police officer. They only arrested him today because you were asking questions.”

At that, Amy didn’t even bother to fight her grin. “I’m just happy justice will be served,” she said.

Holt nodded sagely and told her to go home. “I’ll want a follow tomorrow on this cop,” he said as she headed back to her desk to pick up her things.

Amy decided to walk home instead of taking the subway. It was late enough that the heat of the day had finally dissipated a little, and anyway, she hadn’t been outside once since getting back to the newsroom. It was nice to breathe some fresh air, such as it was in New York.

Today had been by far her most successful since joining the Bulletin staff three months ago. Honestly, it had been her first successful day, period.

At 30, Amy knew she was a bit on the old side for an entry-level job covering cops at a community newspaper like the Bulletin, but she’d just switched careers after a post-college stint as an elementary school art teacher. She’d actually been surprised when Holt had offered to put her on cops -- it wasn’t the most glamorous beat, but it was a step above general assignment. And it was a beat she genuinely loved. Of course she had aspirations to make it to The Times someday, but for the moment, she was thrilled to be exactly where she was: covering the NYPD, source of the grisliest, most sensational news in the country.

But crime was a tough beat, with especially fierce competition and tight-lipped sources and a lot of gossip and misinformation to contend with. The cops themselves were sometimes the hardest part of the job. There was so much bitter history and genuine mistrust between the NYPD and the media.

Amy had been feeling overwhelmed from her first day, and though Raymond Holt was a smart, inspiring editor in chief, he was also intimidating and she badly wanted to impress him. She’d been barely keeping up with the crimes of the day and had been starting to feel like maybe she didn’t have the spark to nail the bigger stories -- the scoops that make or break a reporter.

Until today, anyway. Amy hummed to herself as she crossed through Fort Greene Park, which was still buzzing with activity even after 10 p.m. on a Friday night, though much of the noise came from the bars and restaurants on the perimeter. Her story would already be online by now, and tomorrow it would be on the front page of the newspaper. She could hardly wait to see the reaction it would get. Even The Times would have to follow her lead.

As she headed up Franklin toward her apartment, Amy replayed the events of the day all over again. It had started with that detective. He’d had an impish smile and unruly hair, but his information had been solid. She wondered why he’d picked her out of the crowd of reporters.

Peralta. That was the name he’d responded to. She’d have to look him up sometime.

+++

“Peralta, you are an idiot.”

Rosa shoved her phone in front of Jake’s face and he jerked back instinctively, sloshing beer down his shirt and into his lap.

“Rosa, what the-”

“Read,” Rosa said, shaking the phone. He took it from her and squinted at the text she’d pulled up on the screen.

“Oh, hey. I didn’t think she’d get the story that fast,” Jake said, impressed.

“What the hell were you thinking?” Rosa snatched her phone back. “The Vulture will slaughter you if he finds out this came from you.”

Jake shrugged, though in reality the very idea of being found out tipping off a reporter made him feel slightly ill. “I just didn’t want to see that asshole get off.”

“You know they were going to arrest him anyway.”

“Yeah, but only after no one gave a shit anymore, and then at least the department could save face,” Jake said. He grabbed a napkin and blotted at his wet clothes. “I’m just tired of this bullshit.”

He knew he didn’t have to explain to Rosa the bullshit he was talking about. The Vulture had taken over the Nine-Nine almost two years ago, and their jobs had been hell ever since.

Pembroke’s stated goal was not so much about catching bad guys, but making the NYPD – and more specifically Pembroke himself – look good. In theory, those were the same goals. But somehow under the Vulture the two paths diverged, and Jake and Rosa had found themselves increasingly pressured to prioritize cases that would get positive media attention and back off of the – as Pembroke put it – garbage ones.

Most of the decent cops in the Nine-Nine had left within a year of the Vulture taking over, but somehow Jake and Rosa were still there, partnered on a lonely island surrounded by cold, unfriendly, shark- (or vulture-) infested waters.

“If you’re thinking of making a habit of this, don’t,” Rosa said, tipping her beer bottle toward Jake in a weirdly threatening way. “The Vulture will find out, and if he doesn’t, Wuntch will. It’s too risky.”

“I know.” Jake sighed, and took a long pull from his beer. “I just kind of lost it today when he actually called a press conference and fed them all lies. He knowingly arrested the wrong man and made him the headline of the day. That’s messed up, Rosa.”

Rosa nodded glumly. “Yeah, that was all kinds of fucked up.”

They drank in silence for a while, ignoring the other cops and assorted locals at Shaw’s. Jake grabbed a handful of nuts from the bowl on their table and picked out the cashews before tossing the rest in his mouth.

Approaching that reporter had been a spontaneous decision. He’d snuck out the back of the precinct to watch the press conference, knowing it was going to piss him off. When the Vulture had started spelling the fiance’s name -- to make sure the journalists got it right, of course -- something in Jake had snapped.

He’d waited until the reporters converged on him to ask their questions and then sidled up right behind the young woman in the back. Her shiny brown hair had been falling out of her bun, the loose strands curling around her neck, and her pink blouse was sticking to her back with sweat. She’d clearly been startled when he’d suddenly whispered in her ear, but she’d recovered quickly. He’d watched her approach Pembroke straight away. So she was brave, or else just new.

Jake left Shaw’s on the early side, after Rosa decided to chew him out some more. At his apartment, he showered and changed into sleep clothes and climbed into bed, then he pulled up the Bulletin story and read it to the end. She’d done good work, and Jake felt an unexpected flush of pride. Rosa was right, he’d taken a big risk -- but it had been the right thing.

He scrolled back up to the top of the story and read the byline.

‘Well,’ Jake thought, as he flipped off his phone and tucked it under his pillow, ‘it was nice working with you, Amy Santiago.’


	2. Chapter 2

Amy’s family had not taken well to her announcement that she was leaving education to go into journalism. It wasn’t the leaving part that had bothered them – it was the ‘going into.’ Her family didn’t agree on much, but they were pretty united in their mistrust of the mainstream media.

Her dad had been a career cop with the NYPD, and three of her seven brothers had followed his footsteps. Her mom had been a full-time social activist, which didn’t pay as well as detective (as in, at all) but required the same level of commitment. Three of Amy’s brothers had taken after their mom and were now working for various human rights organizations in and around New York. Her youngest brother was the only other outlier, and he’d really gone rogue – he was a singer/actor/writer trying to make it onto Broadway. They’d all been gently indulgent of Amy’s decision to go into education, but when she’d shifted to journalism the fallout had been immediate and vehement, and come from all sides. Including David the singer/actor/writer, which seemed profoundly unfair.

Amy had been passionate about the news – and newspapers in particular – for as long as she could remember, but a career in journalism had seemed as outlandish to her as a child as David’s drive to go into entertainment. In a way, it had been his incremental successes that had given her the final push to follow her own dreams. That and the fact that she was sick to death of teaching 9- and 10-year-olds how to make sun collages and watercolor flowers. Kids were loud and messy (and also most of them sucked at art).

Of course, journalists were loud and messy too, Amy thought, as she leaned back in her chair and stretched her arms over her head, peering about the newsroom. At the desk directly across from Amy’s, Gina was screaming at someone on the phone that no, she was not going to write an expose about toxic government immunization programs.

“Fucking anti-vaxxers,” Gina snapped as she slammed the phone back in the cradle.

On the far side of the newsroom, Charles was asking Terry if dog shit really smelled different from human shit, and if it was necessary to include that in Hitchcock’s story on street pooping. Hitchcock himself was watching a video turned up way too loud on his computer; it sounded like porn.

Amy loved her job.

“Santiago,” Terry called, yanking Amy out of her musings. Holt was the editor in chief of the Bulletin, but it was Terry who ran the metro desk, the heart of the newsroom.

“What’s up, boss?” Amy said, as Terry walked up to her desk.

“What’ve you got for me today?” He was staring down at a battered legal pad in his hands, on which Amy knew was written the stories everyone was working on and when they expected to have them done.

“Um.” She usually had three or four things to pitch him, but the past few days had been unusually slow and she’d already written three stories that had been on her evergreen list. She was perilously close to coming up dry for the first time since she’d started at the Bulletin.

“Look,” Terry said, planting his palms on her desk and leaning toward her, “we’re okay for tomorrow’s paper, but it would really help if you could come up with something good for the weekend.”

Amy knew that “it would really help” was about as close as Terry came to ordering a story, so she squared her shoulders and nodded. “Roger that.”

Terry frowned at her and narrowed his eyes. “You’re starting to sound like a cop,” he said. “It’s weird.”

Amy shrugged. “Hazard of the job, I guess?” She hadn’t told anyone that she came from a long line of NYPD cops. She worried Terry or Holt might pull her off the beat if they thought she was biased.

Terry just grunted and scratched a note, then called out “Hitchcock” and moved on.

Amy slumped in her chair. She’d dodged the daily bullet, but now she needed to come up with something really good for the weekend edition. She pulled up her evergreen list – stories that, in theory, could be written up and published any time because they had nothing to do with current events – but the ones left were boring or would take more than a few days to finish.

Amy set her chin in her hand and checked the NYPD Twitter feeds, and then the neighborhood blogs and even The Times local news website, but there was nothing going on. What she needed was a good tip, some murder or weird robbery or identify theft case she could expose.

She thought of Peralta. She’d actually tried looking him up, the day after her story was published, but she’d found almost no public records on him. A search of the NYPD staff database had provided his name, rank and current assignment to the 99th Precinct, but no photo. He wasn’t in the Bulletin archives at all, and he didn’t seem to have a Facebook account or any other social media presence. She wondered if he was normally an undercover cop, which would explain the low-key identity. Or else he just didn’t do very interesting work with the NYPD – but somehow Amy didn’t think that was the case.

Amy tapped a pen against her reporter’s notebook and wondered – not for the first time – why he’d picked her out of the crowd to tip off about the ex-boyfriend-slash-cop. And she wondered what other interesting stuff he might have hidden under those rolled-up sleeves.

At that thought, Amy groaned to herself and chuckled. Detective Peralta was cute and he’d given her a good tip, but that was hardly anything to be fantasizing about. Besides, he was a cop, and she’d had enough cops in her life to know that though there were some amazing ones – like her dad and two out of her three brothers – a lot of them were power hungry, egotistic, self-righteous and borderline corrupt. Just because Peralta had helped her out once didn’t make him one of the good guys.

She turned back to her computer and pulled up the NYPD Twitter feed again. She might have to write that feature on the new anti-graffiti task force after all, Amy thought with a sigh, and began taking notes.

+++

Jake stared at the board in the briefing room, trying to find the link between the string of pawn-shop robberies he and Rosa had been investigating for two weeks. They had pins marking spots all across Brooklyn, plus a few in Queens, and there was no obvious geographic connection. He sat down on the edge of a table and ran a hand through his hair. Beside him, Rosa sighed and blew a strand of hair out of her face.

“Maybe it’s not the same guy,” Rosa said, picking up their stack of reports again and flipping through the pages.

“Or girl,” Jake said, just to be a jerk. Rosa kicked him in the shin. He flashed her a grimace and rubbed his leg. “Look, it’s obviously one guy, or a couple working together. It’s the same MO every time: Break in just after midnight, take out a security guard, grab the cash on hand, and out the way they came in.”

“And they never show up on the security cameras, so they’ve obviously staked the place out.”

“Right.”

They both stared at the board some more. Jake let his eyes go a little crossed, like maybe if he skewed his vision he’d make some sense of the puzzle in front of them. He was reminded of those old “Magic Eye” pictures from when he was a kid. He’d always been good at finding the hidden image. He didn’t see anything now, but he could feel a subtle tickling in the back of his brain, a familiar itch that let him know he was missing some piece, and that he was close. If he could just relax, open his mind, he was sure he could figure this out.

“Peralta!” called a voice from the bullpen. Jake jolted out of his musings and jumped off the table to poke his head out. The Vulture’s assistant, Penny, waved at him. “Phone call. It’s at your desk.”

Jake turned back to Rosa and nodded toward his desk and she waved him off. The bullpen was a zoo – the Vulture was cackling wildly in his office, some dude was screaming at a prostitute in the holding cell, and for some reason there was a group of Boy Scouts crowded around the sergeant’s desk. All the noise was distracting, which was part of the reason he and Rosa had retreated to the briefing room.

He picked up his phone and said, loudly, “Peralta.”

“Detective Peralta?” came the voice on the other end.

“Yeah, that’s me,” Jake said. He pressed the phone into his ear.

“Oh, hi. It’s Amy Santiago. With the Brooklyn Bulletin?”

“Shit!” A spike of alarm shot down his back. Jake looked quickly around the bullpen to see if anyone was watching him.

“Excuse me?” Santiago said.

“Why are you calling me here?” Jake hissed.

“I’m sorry, I just called the main line-”

“I can’t talk to you on this phone.” Jake glanced toward the Vulture’s office; he was sprawled back in his chair, feet on his desk, laughing at something on his cell phone.

“Okay, sorry, I just had a quick-”

“Look, I’ll call you back. Is this the right number?” He read back the digits that showed on his phone and Santiago confirmed that was her number. “Okay, give me five minutes.”

Jake hung up without waiting for an answer and took a deep breath. He let it out slowly, then ducked back into the briefing room. “Hey, I’ve got to hit the head, I’ll be right back,” he said to Rosa, and left when she just waved him off again.

Jake took the stairs to the first floor and walked all the way down the block, toward the deli where he got lunch every other day. He leaned against the wall around the corner from the precinct and dialed the number he’d memorized.

“Amy Santiago-”

“I can’t believe you called me at the precinct!” he said, trying hard not to raise his voice. “Did you give anyone your name?”

“No,” Santiago said, quickly. “I just asked for you and they transferred me. No one knows anything.”

“Okay, good. That’s good.” Jake released a long breath.

“Seriously, I’m sorry for freaking you out,” Santiago said, and she did sound contrite. “I didn’t know how else to get in touch with you.”

“It’s fine,” Jake said. “But why were you trying to reach me anyway? And how did you even get my name?”

“Someone called your name at the press conference and I looked you up,” Santiago said. “As for why I called, I had a favor to ask.”

“Haven’t I done enough favors for you?” Jake huffed. “Nice story, by the way. Front page and everything.”

“Thanks,” Santiago said. “And yes, I appreciate the help. I promise, this one is not nearly as big of a deal. I’ve got the whole story already worked out, I just need you to confirm one little detail before I can publish.”

Jake closed his eyes, wishing he’d remembered to grab his sunglasses before darting outside. He really should end this conversation now, before things got complicated. Rosa would kill him if she knew he was out here even listening to a reporter. But he had to admit, he wanted to know what she was working on.

“I can’t promise I’ll help, but tell me what you’ve got.”

“Okay, here’s the story,” Santiago said, and Jake knew after half a sentence that he was screwed.

She’d somehow caught on to the fact that the deputy commissioner’s son had been tagging police vehicles with penises, and that he’d been caught multiple times and let go with no repercussions. She told him that her sources were solid but no one could confirm with absolute certainty that the kid was definitely the deputy commissioner’s son. He had the same name and was the right age, but there was the slimmest possibility that could be a coincidence, and Santiago said the story was too big to bet on coincidence.

Jake himself had barely dodged this particular nightmare a few weeks earlier, when the Vulture had demanded he drop his own case against the kid. Jake had been sorely tempted to arrest him anyway but Rosa had stepped in and told him it would be career suicide without his captain’s backing. It still bugged Jake that the brat had gotten away with it.

“Look,” he said to Santiago, “even if I had information that would help you, I couldn’t share it. The kid’s a minor. Those records are sealed up.”

“Ah, I thought you’d say that,” Santiago said. “Turns out Trevor Podolski is 18. About to be 19, actually.”

“What?” Jake yelled into the phone. “That little shit lied to me? On an official police report?”

“So you do know about this case!”.

Jake winced. “Fine, yes, I worked it for a few days. But seriously, I can’t help you with this one. It’s too risky.”

“Come on, Peralta,” Santiago said. “This is your chance to set things right.”

Jake groaned and bumped his head back against the wall.

“I mean it, I’ve got everything already.” Santiago’s voice took on a desperate edge. “I just need you to tell me the story is true. That the kid is the deputy commissioner’s son.”

Jake bit his lip, glanced up and down the street. A car was parked on the opposite corner. He recognized it immediately as an unmarked police vehicle because of the giant dick spray-painted on the driver’s side door.

“Detective?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, you’re still on the phone? Or yes-”

“Yes, your story’s right,” Jake said. “I’ve gotta go.”

“Thank you!”

Jake gave her a quick “Welcome” and ended the call. He glared at the penis car, then pushed back off the wall and headed back to the precinct.

When he returned to the briefing room, Rosa scowled at him and said, “Where were you? I checked the bathroom.”

“You went in the men’s room?” Jake said, then shook his head and walked up to the board. “Never mind. I solved the case. It was the guys who installed the security cameras.”

Rosa stared at him, then picked up their notes again and began flipping through them, a slow smile spreading over her face. “How’d you do that?”

Jake just shrugged, and ducked his head to hide a small smile. For all that Santiago had nearly given him a heart attack, Jake had to admit, talking to her had actually cleared his head. 

+++

The next morning, Jake had just slung his bag onto his desk when the Vulture called him into his office. Pembroke had two tones when he yelled out his detectives’ names: impatient and furious. This tone was not impatient.

Rosa narrowed her eyes at Jake and he shrugged back in return before heading into the Vulture’s den. Or nest, Jake supposed. But “nest” didn’t sound nearly terrible enough.

“Wha’s up, Captain?” Jake said, tapping his knuckles on the Vulture’s open door.

Pembroke replied by holding up a copy of the Brooklyn Bulletin and shaking it so the pages rattled. Jake squinted at the front page and read the top headline out loud: “’Expose: Parking Fines Lining Police Pockets.’” Jake paused and scratched the back of his neck. “Ouch, there goes your retirement in Long Island. Sorry, sir.”

“Not that bullshit,” Pembroke cut in. “The other story, below it.”

Jake scanned down to the story in the lower left corner. “Oh.”

“Yeah, oh! ’NYPD Official’s Son Is a Painter -- of Penises on Police Cars.’” The Vulture slapped the newspaper onto his desk. “What the fuck, Peralta.”

“Wait- what?” Jake stepped fully into the office, kicking the door shut behind him. “You think I had anything to do with this?”

Pembroke glowered at him. “You were the last guy to work that case, and you made it clear you were pissed about how it was handled, so yeah, I think you leaked it to the pretty reporter and probably got your dick sucked in return.”.

“Okay, first off,” Jake said, “that’s disgusting and super offensive. And second, no – I didn’t leak anything. I wouldn’t even know how to leak something like that. I don’t even know who-” he paused and made a show of lifting up the paper to peek at the name on the story, “Amy Santiago is.”

“She’s hot and she’s been busting our asses lately,” Pembroke said. “You really didn’t tip her off about the Podolski thing?”

“I swear, I had nothing to do with that.”

Pembroke eyed him warily and Jake just stood there, hands clasped behind his back, forcing his face to stay relaxed and give nothing away. Finally, Pembroke turned back to his desk. He flipped the newspaper into his trashcan – Jake was tempted to make a comment about recycling but now probably wasn’t the time – and said, “Fine, dismissed.”

Jake turned to go, then remembered he actually had a case he wanted to bring up.

“Uh, one more thing,” he said, plowing on even when Pembroke got that look on his face that meant their conversation had already gone on about five minutes longer than he’d prefer. “I got a text from a CI last night. He said there’s this new drug, some kind of fentanyl analog. They’re calling it Jazzy Pants-”

“No-go,” Pembroke said, cutting him off.

“Sir, with all due respect, if there’s another high-potency fentanyl on the street this could be a huge case.”

“I said drop it,” Pembroke said. “Anyway, the Seven-Eight has a task force. Let them handle it.”

“Oh, well, if the Seven-Eight has task force,” Jake said, not bothering to hide his scorn.

“Dismissed, Peralta.”

Jake walked out without another word.

+++

“You’re crazy, man,” Rosa said later that day, over lunch.

They’d gotten deli sandwiches to go and were eating them outside, sitting on the benches at the neighborhood playground. Kids were screeching and racing around the asphalt, climbing the wrong way up the slides and shoving each other on the swings. Normally Jake would be itching to go out and play with them – and honestly, sometimes he did; he figured it was good for police-community relations – but today he was on his phone. He was buying a digital subscription to the Bulletin.

“I know,” Jake said, mumbling around the credit card he’d stuck between his teeth. He plucked it out to type in the number and added, “But you have to admit, it was pretty great seeing that jerk kid’s mugshot in the paper.”

Jake had picked up his own copy of the Bulletin not long after leaving Pembroke’s office. Rosa had followed him outside and when she’d accused him of the same thing the Vulture had, Jake hadn’t bothered denying it, though he’d explained that he hadn’t been the original source. Rosa hadn’t seemed impressed by that detail.

“Yeah, it’s great that the kid is going to get in trouble for drawing dicks on cop cars, but is that really worth risking your career?” Rosa said. “Don’t be an idiot, Jake.”

Jake finished entering his credit card and personal information and hit “submit” on the subscription form. When the confirmation page came up, he tucked his phone back in his pants pocket and turned fully to Rosa.

“I’m not being an idiot,” he said. “So I helped her out a couple of times. It’s not like she’s putting my name in the paper or anything.”

“Not yet.” Rosa plucked a pickle out of her sandwich and flicked it into a nearby trash can. “What is it about her anyway? It isn’t like you to-” She paused, a frown of distaste twisting her lips. “Trust someone.”

Jake rolled his eyes and groaned. “I don’t trust her, Rosa.” She gave him a very dubious eyebrow lift. “Okay, I have on two occasions trusted her, but it’s not like I trust her as a person. You know I only trust three people-”

“Your mom, that weird friend whose name I always forget-”

“And you,” Jake finished.

Rosa gave him a thin smile that was part pity and part fondness. “I’m just worried that trusting this reporter is going to bite you in the ass later. It seems a little reckless, man.”

“Well, thank you for your concern, but I’m not reckless.”

Rosa sighed the way she did when Jake was being obtuse, and he slumped back on the bench. Because she had a point. Jake had come close to being burned before, almost a decade ago when he’d gotten drunk and mouthed off to a reporter from one of the tabloids. When Jake had called the reporter to beg him not to use his quotes or name him in the story, the reporter had refused. It was only dumb luck that the same reporter was arrested as part of a federal sex trafficking scheme the very next day, and was now in prison. Which reminded Jake -- he should probably check on Jimmy Brogan’s parole date.

He hadn’t been a fan of journalists since then. He wasn’t a regular news consumer, but he did pay attention when a case he was working on or familiar with got some coverage, so he knew the media bungled the facts almost as often as they got them right. Jake had seen a few cases actually mangled beyond repair by a reporter’s shoddy work. And even when the facts were technically right, they were missing context, or they were twisted in a way to make the NYPD look bad. 

Jake wasn’t an NYPD apologist, and he didn’t expect cops to be fawned over by anyone, but he believed in the work they did and he knew most of his colleagues were good people who deserved fair treatment, at least. Journalists weren’t interested in fair, though.

“I’ll be careful,” Jake said.

“That implies you’re going to keep talking to Santiago.”

Jake balled up the paper his sandwich had been wrapped in and tossed it toward the trashcan. He missed.

“I won’t,” he said, and pushed up off the bench to throw out his garbage.

+++

Jake didn’t think much about Santiago or the Bulletin until later that night, when he got bored during an episode of Real Housewives of Dallas and started fidgeting with his phone. He pulled up the Bulletin app and searched for Santiago’s name, and the next thing he knew he was reading through all of her articles.

He had to admit: Her pieces seemed surprisingly balanced and accurate. He read a few where she hadn’t gotten the facts entirely right, but he knew that was a lot to ask when she was probably dealing with reluctant sources (cops) and people feeding her misinformation (everyone else). She was also a pretty good writer, from what he could tell.

And he’d meant what he’d said to Rosa – it had been nice to see justice served in two cases where he’d been unable to get the results he wanted on his own.

He knew Rosa was right to be concerned for him about making this a habit, and he promised himself that wouldn’t be an issue. He really didn’t trust people generally, and Santiago wasn’t just “people,” she was a journalist, which made her, well, if not necessarily an enemy, certainly not a friend.

Still, he reasoned it wouldn’t hurt to let Santiago know that he’d read her latest piece. He took out his phone and pulled up the number he’d dialed the day before, hoping it was her cell and not a land line. He opened a text message and wrote, “Front page again. Congrats.” He hit send.

Jake tossed the phone aside and turned back to the TV. The text alert chimed and Jake leaned over to look at the screen: “Thanks.”

A minute later another message popped up: “We make a good team.”

Jake stared at the screen for a moment before turning it off without replying. He wasn’t sure what to make of that text, but for some reason the words stuck with him for the rest of the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note re: canon. Obviously this is an AU, but I'm also clearly borrowing from canon. I did not put any effort into merging canon timelines into my AU timeline. For example, in this fic, Amy's 30 and Jake's 32ish, but I'm borrowing things from canon that happened after those ages in the show. I make no apologies -- it's an AU! But in case there are people (like me!) who get twitchy about canon divergence, just know that it was a conscious decision on my part.
> 
> As always, feedback is fantastic. I'm @vernonfielding on Tumblr.


	3. Chapter 3

Amy was deep in thought, eyes gone unfocused as she stared at her computer screen and tried to will a new lede to reveal itself, when a thunk to her forehead snapped her back to reality.

“Ow!” Amy looked up and found Gina already preparing another ball of paper, probably weighted with something like a rock, or an actual paper weight.

“I wasn’t trying to hit you. But I’m also not sorry that I did,” Gina said. She tossed the next ball, which Amy managed to duck. The third one hit her phone and knocked the headset off the receiver.

“What the hell, Gina?”

“I need to kill that horrible machine.” Gina launched another paper ball, which bounced an inch from the police scanner on Amy’s desk. “Oh, so close!”

“Knock it off,” Amy said. “I need that.”

“It’s distracting,” Gina said.

“Just ignore it. Everyone else does.”.

“No we don’t,” Charles called from across the newsroom.

“Come on! Every newsroom has a police scanner.” Amy glanced around at her coworkers, looking for a friendly face, and paused hopefully on Terry.

“It’s not 1985,” Terry said. “Just follow the news online like everyone else, Santiago.”

“You all are terrible journalists.” Amy grabbed the scanner and moved it to a more protected spot on her desk, right beside her hard copy of the Associated Press Stylebook and a stack of battered Yellow Pages.

She’d had no idea everyone else was bothered by the scanner. It spit out a constant stream of static and mumbled police jargon, but to Amy it was like white noise. She’d grown up around police scanners and had developed an innate ability to ignore them when nothing was happening and hone right in when the chatter got interesting. Apparently it was not a skill hardwired into all reporters.

“Why do you need that anyway?” Gina said, approaching Amy’s desk and snapping up the scanner. “Doesn’t your Deep Throat give you all your stories now?”

“He’s not my Deep Throat,” Amy said. She reached for her scanner and Gina pulled it away.

“Whatever, Bernstein.” Gina dropped the scanner in Amy’s trash can and walked away.

“And I’m not the Bernstein!” Amy called after her. “I’m totally the Woodward!”

Terry came up and plucked her scanner out of the trash, setting it back on her desk. “Just ignore her,” he said. “She’s always wanted a Deep Throat.”

In truth, Amy was secretly thrilled that she had a real-life “deep throat” in Peralta, even if their interactions weren’t nearly as cool as the ones from All the President’s Men. They hadn’t once met in a creepy parking lot after midnight. She didn’t have a gross but admittedly cool code name for him. And the tips he gave her weren’t exactly going to save democracy.

Still, he was texting her. Kind of a lot. And okay, most of it was immature and needling – he especially liked giving her a hard time when her stories were buried in the back of the paper or failed to get any traction on Twitter. But every now and then he’d pass on something useful.

It had started soon after the Poloski story ran. Peralta had texted her the next day to congratulate her, which she had taken as a polite way for him to acknowledge that he wasn’t mad at her for calling him. Then a week later he’d texted again, in response to a short story she’d written about a local bank robbery – he’d suggested that she ask if the latest robbery was connected to a series of thefts from the previous year, and sure enough, Scully confirmed they were. She hadn’t gotten on the front page, but it was information no other reporters had.

After that, the texts started coming more regularly. Often it was just feedback – or, more precisely, critical commentary. And it wasn’t always her articles. After Hitchcock wrote a piece about NYPD overtime expenses pulling money out of city programs for public health and homeless services, Peralta sent Amy a three-paragraph text asking whether he and his partner should have just clocked off at 5 when they were pursuing that serial stabber last year. Amy wrote back: “Send a letter to the editor.” Peralta replied with a zombie emoji.

A few times he texted about Gina’s columns, mostly to complain about her liberal use of anonymous sources – a critique that Amy privately agreed with. When Charles wrote an unsigned, negative review of Sal’s pizza in the Bulletin’s restaurant column, Jake demanded a retraction. She didn’t reply.

His comments on her stories tended to be more specific. Once, he texted her an hour before the print deadline to tell her she’d misspelled another detective’s name in a story he’d read online; she’d had time to fix it for the next day’s newspaper, saving herself an embarrassing correction. Another time he wrote that a headline on her story was obviously biased against cops, and though Amy had texted back “I don’t write the headlines,” she’d agreed with him, and asked Charles to revise it online.

They’d had one honest-to-goodness text fight. She’d written an article about two officers accused of threatening a man and forcibly removing him from his home during a robbery investigation. In his formal complaint, the man said the officers had been drunk, and the interactions he described made the officers look at best incredibly unprofessional, and at worst criminally derelict. The NYPD wouldn’t comment except to say that it was conducting an internal investigation.

“Those are good cops you just trashed,” Peralta wrote to her that night.

“Give me their side of the story and I’ll write it,” Amy texted back. She was crashed on her couch, exhausted after spending the day trying to track down the two officers for comment and arguing with Scully – who was either secretly brilliant at evading questions, or the most inept public information officer in all of the NYPD.

“You know I can’t do that,” Peralta texted.

“Then tell me what I’m supposed to do if no one will talk,” Amy wrote, stabbing at the letters.

“So its better to write a one-sided, inaccurate story than not publish at all? That’s crap.”

“”It’s,” Amy wrote, and immediately felt like an asshole.

Peralta texted back an eyeroll emoji, which she deserved.

“It’s my job to hold people in power accountable for their actions,” Amy wrote. “I’m not going to apologize for that. NYPD wants its side in the paper, they have to talk to me.”

She watched her screen as he worked on his reply.

“It’s not fair,” he wrote.

Amy thought for a moment and finally wrote, “No. It’s not.”

She didn’t hear from him for a few days after that and she thought maybe that was it. He’d probably figured out that he had way more to lose than gain by talking to her. Then, before she’d even gotten out of bed one morning, he texted a name and a link to a short item she’d written about a dead body found in the East River. And that was how Amy was the first to report that a highly placed mafia boss had been shot and killed, his body dumped in the water.

Two days later he gave her an exclusive on a Park Slope millennial family being arrested for dealing methamphetamine through a fake moms group.

(He also tipped her off to a Greenpoint storefront selling organic, gluten-free, sugar-free Twinkies, but Amy replied that wasn’t a crime. Peralta texted back a handcuffs emoji. She ended up writing the story for the features section. It went viral on Facebook.)

Eventually, Amy decided he needed a fake name in her contacts. She called him Pineapples – for some reason it just popped into her brain – and every time a new message from him appeared on her screen, she felt a little jolt of adrenaline.

She told herself it was just the anticipation of the next big story.

+++

“And his name is…Pepper! Officer Pepper O’Pigeon. I’ll take questions now.”

Scully swept his hands toward the giant pigeon in question and a few of the littler kids at his side clapped politely. Amy sighed and turned off her voice recorder. One of the TV reporters weakly asked if Officer Pepper O’Pigeon was a boy or girl pigeon and Amy didn’t stick around for the answer.

Free of the clutch of reporters looking for a cheap and easy feature story for the day, Amy took one last glance around the scene. She’d come to this press conference against her better judgment mostly because it was being held at the 99th Precinct. Scully liked to shift these kinds of “community building” press conferences among the various precincts so they all got a share of positive media attention, and normally Amy skipped them. She’d told herself yesterday that she was coming to this one because the precinct was between her apartment and the Bulletin offices – it was just a stop along the way to work – but if she was honest, she’d come because she was hoping to spot Detective Peralta.

Now, she realized that had been dumb. There were no cops here at all except for Scully and two uniforms who looked so young they might well have been interns. Except she didn’t think the NYPD did interns. She’d have to look that up later.

Amy shoved her phone in her purse and headed back toward the subway, trying to decide if she should take the train the rest of the way in or just walk the mile and a half. She passed a coffee shop and the smell of fresh ground beans hit her brain like something illegal. She’d found herself out of coffee at home that morning and decided to try skipping it altogether, but clearly she was not meant for cold turkey. Amy neatly sidestepped into the coffee shop.

She recognized it immediately as a cop hangout. There were two uniforms in line at the register, and a couple of plain-clothes with badges snapped to their belts perched on stools at the front window. A parking patrol officer sat at a corner table with a newspaper – sadly, The Times – spread out before her.

Amy walked up to the register just as the uniforms finished ordering and asked for a large coffee with room. At the side counter, she reached for the nonfat milk to the far right, just as someone came up beside her and made a move for the full-fat in front of her.

“Excuse me-”

“Sorry-”

Amy glanced up and stopped, hand in midair. She stared into the wide, brown eyes of Detective Peralta.

“Detective-”

His eyes widened even more and he shook his head. Amy snapped her mouth shut. Peralta quickly looked back over his shoulder to the rest of the coffee shop, then turned and said under his breath, “We can’t talk.”

“Oh-”

“Here you go,” he said, in a slightly louder than necessary voice, and handed her the milk she’d been reaching for.

“Oh,” Amy said again. “Thanks. Thank you.”

“No problem.” Peralta darted a quick glance in her direction.

They topped off their drinks in silence, and Peralta left first. Amy followed a minute after, feeling dazed. Her heart was hammering in her chest and her face felt warm, like she was blushing. She looked toward the 99th Precinct when she stepped outside the coffee shop, but Peralta was nowhere in sight. Her heart sank, and Amy thought back to the panicked look on his face, and also the fact that he was actually much cuter than she’d remembered.

She glanced down the street toward the precinct one more time, then moved on in the opposite direction. She was definitely going to have to walk to work now, just to burn off this weird adrenaline rush. Amy pulled out her phone to check the time – and saw a text on the screen.

“Bailey Fountain. 20 min.”

Amy didn’t think twice. She spun on her heel and headed toward Prospect Park.

+++

Jake jogged most of the way down Flatbush toward the park, glancing at his cell phone as the trees came into view. He’d had to check in at the precinct before ducking out again, and it had taken him a few minutes to shake Rosa. She’d asked him outright why he was acting so weird and he’d said he was acting totally normal and she’d given him that terrifying eyebrow sneer and he knew he’d be answering more questions later. At least he’d have some time to devise answers.

He slowed to a walk as he crossed Plaza Street and stepped into the park proper, the hum of traffic now muffled by the trees. He looked around for Santiago as he climbed the steps toward the fountain, and spotted her right away, on the closest bench. He was ten minutes late, but he paused anyway, then stepped a few feet to his right, so he was partly behind a tree. He wasn’t sure why, but he wanted a moment to watch her, before she knew he was there.

When he’d met her, very briefly, at the press conference a few weeks ago, he’d had just a few seconds to look at her and notice that she was cute. Now, as he walked the thin line between cop and creep and watched her from behind a tree, he had to admit that the Vulture was right: Santiago was hot. Except that wouldn’t have been the first word he’d use to describe her. She was, simply, beautiful. A woman who would catch his attention in a crowded bar or in line at the corner bodega, who would probably be as gorgeous in an evening gown as she would yoga pants and a hoodie.

At the moment, she was wearing a bright blue button-down shirt and black slacks, and her hair was down, part of it cascading over one shoulder and literally shimmering in the morning sunshine. He was standing close enough to see she had her phone in her hands and was typing on it, thumbs tapping away. She had her bag still slung over her shoulder and tucked into her side, which was sensible given how common purse snatches were in the park.

Though her head was bent to look at her phone, her back was straight, her shoulders squared, and she gave off a distinct ‘don’t mess with me’ vibe that Jake respected. But there was something about her that made him feel strangely precious toward her nonetheless – the pout of her lips, or the faint line between her eyebrows, some softness that he couldn’t quite articulate.

She looked up from her phone suddenly, and Jake neatly stepped out from the tree before she could catch him being a weirdo. He gave a little wave as he approached.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said, as he sat beside her on the bench.

“It’s fine.” She set her phone in her lap and turned slightly toward him. “I’m sorry about, well, the whole not playing it cool thing at the coffee shop. I wasn’t expecting to see you there.”

“Right, the coffee shop across the street from a police precinct is a totally weird place to run into a cop,” Jake said, but he was grinning.

“I was expecting cops, but not my cop,” Santiago said, which caused Jake to snort-laugh.

“Oh, so I belong to you?”

“You know what I mean,” Santiago said with a hint of exasperation, though he could tell she was trying not to smile.

They lapsed into silence, the bubble of the fountain unnaturally loud to Jake. He wished he’d brought his coffee with him just so he’d have something to do with his hands. Beside him, Santiago was turning her phone over and over, until she finally seemed to realize what she was doing and stuffed it in her purse.

“So, what-”

“Look, I-”

They both stopped and laughed a little.

“You go,” Santiago said.

“I was just going to ask if there was something you wanted to talk about,” Jake said. “I mean, something in particular. I know I was the one who said we should meet here but I got the impression you had something on your mind. At the coffee shop.”

“You did?”

“Yeah, it was just a look on your face, like you were about to ask a question.”

“Oh.” Her eyes crinkled in bemusement. “Well, I guess I did. Only actually, no, it wasn’t a question. But I did have something I wanted to say. I mean, not like a speech or anything, just something that’s been on my mind lately.”

Jake bit his tongue to keep from teasing her about being flustered. Instead he gave her what he hoped was an encouraging smile.

Santiago pursed her lips and frowned for a moment, then turned to fully face him.

“I guess I just wanted to say thanks. For, you know, helping me out so much.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and looked him in the eye. “I know you’re putting your career on the line by talking to me, and meanwhile I’m getting all this credit at work. And there’s not really anything I can do to change that, I mean, short of offering you bribes, which would be totally unethical and I would never do. So, yeah, there’s nothing I can do, except just acknowledge what you’re doing and say thanks.”

She paused and took a deep breath. Jake stared into her eyes, which were sparkling in the sunlight. He realized he should probably say something in response.

“You’re welcome.” And then he thought over everything she had just told him, and he added, “But you’re not the only one benefitting. As much as it pains me to admit this – and believe me, it really, truly does – your articles have helped put away a few bad guys. That’s all I’m trying to do at the end of the day.”

Santiago offered him a small smile and shrugged. “I’m glad to hear that, but I still feel like I’m the only one really getting anything out of this relationship.”

Jake startled at that, and Santiago’s eyes went wide and her cheeks flushed.

“Transaction,” Santiago said, quickly. “I’m getting everything out of this transaction. Not a relationship. It’s a professional thing. Totally-”

“Transactional?” Jake supplied, when she trailed off.

Santiago nodded weakly, her whole face now glowing pink. He started laughing, and then found he couldn’t stop. Santiago buried her face in her hands, but when he was still laughing a minute later she slapped him on the shoulder, and then hit him a couple more times until he caught his breath.

“I’m sorry,” he said, holding up his hands in surrender. “I’ve just never seen anyone blush that hard, that fast before.”

“I can’t help my physical reaction,” Santiago said, indignant.

“Title of your sex tape!”

“What?” Santiago’s forehead creased in confusion until she figured out what he meant, and then she hit him again. He just grinned back at her.

“I had no idea you were such an immature jerk,” Santiago said, but there wasn’t any real spite in her tone.

Still, he softened his smile. “It was only a matter of time.”

They fell into another silence, this one less tense. Jake thought again about what she’d said in her oddly poignant speech, turning the words over in his head. He turned to face her, leaning an elbow on the back of the bench.

“Here’s the thing,” he said. “I haven’t had to deal with a lot of reporters firsthand, but from what I’ve seen they’re usually pretty useless. Like, getting stuff wrong and just being lazy, sometimes actually working against us.”

“Like with that story I did, on the drunk cops,” Santiago said.

Jake bristled – he hadn’t meant to accuse her of anything. “Not exactly. Look, I’m sorry I lost it with that story, but I know those guys, and they’re good cops.”

“I get it,” Santiago said. “I mean, I wish I could get all the facts too. I don’t like having to write only half the story.”

“And that’s the crazy part – I believe you.” Jake let them both sit with that a moment, and then he cleared his throat, feeling suddenly shy about oversharing. “Usually I just avoid journalists.”

Santiago chuckled. “You haven’t avoided me,”

“No,” Jake said. “Kind of the opposite, right? I guess trust you.”

She flashed a smile at that, then turned thoughtful. “Do you mind if I ask why?”

Jake shrugged, and thought it over. “That first time, I was just pissed about what was happening with that asshole cop who’d killed his ex, and I wanted to tell someone. And you were there.”

Santiago gave a short laugh. “Thanks, that makes me feel so special.”

“But then,” he said, grinning at her, “you wrote that story and it actually worked, and you wrote the next one and that helped too. And I guess I realized – we were kind of on the same side.”

He paused and bit his lip, unsure whether he should say more. He looked off in the distance, at the fountain water sparkling in the sunshine. “I like helping people. And I like doing it with you.”

Jake could feel Santiago staring at him, but when he looked over she ducked her head as she smiled. She was blushing again.

“Title of your sex tape?” she said.

Jake doubled over laughing.

+++

Amy had a literal spring in her step as she jogged down the stairs to the subway to head into the newsroom. She was hardly even surprised when her train happened to arrive just as she got to the platform – it felt like the kind of day for pleasant coincidences – and she smiled to herself as she climbed on with a few other passengers and found an open seat halfway down the car.

Talking with Peralta had been unexpectedly exhilarating. For a moment she’d been taken aback by how attractive she found him – the mess of curly hair, the tech-bro hoodie, the scuffed sneakers, and what looked like a honey-mustard stain on his plaid shirt wouldn’t usually add up to her type. But there was something charming and easy about him, in his smile and his eyes that practically glowed with warmth. She’d blushed more times with him on that bench in 20 minutes than she could recall in all of the previous year. But it had been a good kind of blush, the kind that came from friendly teasing and not embarrassment or shame.

And in between the sex-tape jokes and the laughter at her expense, she’d been genuinely touched by what he’d said about trusting her. Trust was a journalist’s most valuable commodity, and it was something Amy knew had to be earned, more in this day and age than ever before. That she’d earned it from him – someone she’d already decided was smart and decent, whom she trusted too – was wonderful.

He’d even given her another tip, just before they wrapped up their impromptu rendezvous.

“I can’t vouch for this one personally,” he said. “I’m not involved. I’ve just heard some stuff like, third-hand.”

“That’s all right,” Amy said, as she dug through her purse for her pen and notebook. “It’s actually easier for me to ask questions if I don’t have to worry about protecting my source’s identity.”

He flicked up his eyebrows in surprise.

“What?” Amy said. “I mean, I’ll still be careful.”

“No, of course.” He scratched at the back of his neck. “I guess I just didn’t realize how much thought you might have to put into protecting me.”

There had been something in his tone of voice, almost timid, that made him seem suddenly vulnerable. It had sent a jolt of what Amy could only describe as affection straight to her gut.

On the subway, Amy pulled out her notebook and read over the notes she’d jotted down from Peralta. He was right, his information was more rumor than fact, and it would take a lot of digging to prove it.

What he’d heard was that corrections officers at the Brooklyn Detention Center were sometimes covertly recording confidential conversations between inmates and their lawyers, then sharing those recording with the district attorney’s office. If it was true, that was a major civil rights violation.

The city’s jails were overseen by the Department of Correction, not the NYPD, but Peralta said that aside from being appalled by the abuse of prisoners’ rights, he and other detectives were worried that the correction officers were putting their NYPD cases in jeopardy.

Amy took some more notes as the subway rumbled through the tunnels, writing a list of questions she’d need to ask and sources she’d need to contact. This story would take some major reporting, which meant she was going to have to ask Terry for permission to step back from her daily crime-writing duties. She flipped a page in her notebook and started crafting a memo for him, detailing why the story was important and what she’d need to report and write it.

By the time she got to the newsroom, Amy was feeling pumped. She stopped by Terry’s desk before she even went to her own and told him she had a big story and would send him details right away. She’d emailed her memo by noon.

“Charles,” she said, picking up her purse and marching over to his desk. “I’m feeling brave today. Let’s get lunch – you choose.”

+++

Amy’s good mood lasted through lunch; she hadn’t actually thrown up from the sheep-muzzle soup, after all.

But she was instantly wary when she saw who was waiting at her desk when she returned. Gina sat slouched in Amy’s own chair, flipping through the notebook that Amy hadn’t realized she’d left on her desk. Amy took a moment to berate herself for leaving the newsroom without a notebook, then braced herself for Gina.

“What’s up?” Amy said, trying to play it casual.

“I hear you’ve got a big story.”

“Maybe. Holt hasn’t signed off on it.” Amy stared down at Gina, who just smirked back up at her. “Can I have my desk back now?”

“Is this another one from your little tipster? You’re getting a reputation, you know.” Gina snapped shut Amy’s notebook but made no move to get up.

Something in Gina’s tone made Amy’s hackles rise, and she planted her hands on her hips and said, “What do you mean by ‘reputation’?”

Gina just smirked some more. Amy could feel the anger pooling in her stomach and she was gearing up to lay into her about how entirely unprofessional, unacceptable and just plain mean it was to accuse a reporter of exchanging sexual favors for information when Gina burst out laughing.

“Girl, I’m kidding,” she said, and tossed Amy’s notebook on her desk.

“You- what?”

“Look, honestly, I’m pretty impressed you’ve developed such a good source so fast. It took me twice as long to get my first and I’m at least four times as attractive as you.” Amy just gaped at her as Gina stood up and gave her a little punch in the shoulder. “Seriously, if you need any help working this one, let me know. I’ve got some contacts at Brooklyn Detention. Most of the guards hate me but the ones who like me love me.”

“Er, thanks,” Amy said. “I mean, I still don’t know if Holt’s going to-”

“Oh, he will.”

And as if on cue, Holt called out from his office, “Santiago. Jeffords.”

Gina winked and sashayed back to her desk. Amy stood staring after her, mind reeling from the Linetti roller coaster, until Terry walked up and took her by the elbow.

“C’mon,” he said, “our captain calls.”

“Right,” Amy said, shaking her head. She grabbed her notebook and a pen, and followed Terry.

Holt hadn’t actually been with the Bulletin for much longer than Amy, and his office was largely bare of the personal knick-knacks and ethically acceptable gifts that most journalists seemed to hoard – though whether that was because he was still new or he just wasn’t the type to collect stuff, Amy couldn’t have said. She and Terry took seats opposite Holt’s desk, and he folded his hands over what Amy assumed was a printout of her memo. She was surprised he’d not only read it already, but was ready to discuss it with her.

Holt tapped a finger on the top page. “These are some serious allegations.” 

“Yes, they are,” Terry said. Amy forced herself not to fidget.

“And you don’t have much proof of anything, is that correct?” He was looking right at Amy, so she nodded.

“No, sir,” she said. “Not yet.”

“Proving this is going to take some extensive reporting – public records requests, interviews with inmates. You’re going to need someone with actual information to go on the record,” Holt said.

“Yes.” Amy nodded again. “Um, Gina, she said she might have some contacts for me. And I know a couple people in the public defender’s office.”

Holt studied her for a long moment, and she fought the urge to bounce a leg or wring her hands. Amy understood why he was hesitating – to get this story, she’d have to take a break from her regular police beat, which would put pressure on the rest of the staff to cover for her. Stories like this one were an investment of time and people and, therefore, money, and a newspaper like the Bulletin didn’t have much of any of that.

And on top of that, Amy was a rookie. She hadn’t even been a journalist for more than a few months, and this would be her first big investigation. A few big scoops in recent weeks were marks in her favor, but she knew she hadn’t proven herself yet, not really.

“Your source on this, you trust him? Or her?” Holt said.

Amy nodded at once. “I do.”

“Very well,” Holt said. “You have three weeks.”

Amy clenched her jaw to keep from screaming with joy, and nodded her head in quiet acknowledgement. Outside Holt’s office, Terry gave her a high-five.

“Pressure’s on now, Santiago.”

Amy’s stomach was already in knots and her pits were starting to sweat, but she said, seriously, “Pressure’s what I eat for breakfast.”

She ignored Gina’s snicker and the paper airplane that hit the back of her head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Superstar beta Fezzle suggested at one point that I write up a glossary of journalism terms to go with this fic and I sort of never got around to that. But if anyone has questions/comments about the geeky newspaper stuff, ask away! Here or Tumblr, @vernonfielding.


	4. Chapter 4

Jake scrubbed a hand over his face and sat back in his chair with a sigh. He and Rosa had been stuck all week in the Terrible Case Trifecta: boring crime (vehicle break-ins), asshole victims (Williamsburg millennials), and no leads. The thefts hadn’t even been in their precinct, technically, but the Eight-Four had offloaded the case because the first report had come from a victim who worked nearby and had filed through the Nine-Nine.

But it wasn’t just the tedious case that was making Jake irritable. He propped his chin in his hand and glanced at his cell phone again – no new messages. He glanced covertly at the desk across from him, making sure Rosa was still in the bathroom, and picked up the phone. Maybe he’d somehow missed a text. He pulled up the app and nope – his last text from Santiago had been 10 days ago.

“Dude, stop it,” Rosa said, from way too close behind him. Jake jerked up in his chair and dropped the phone.

“But I don’t want to miss a text from your mom,” Jake said, snidely.

Rosa shot him a solid death glare as she sat back at her desk.

“What have I told you about bringing up my parents?”

“Don’t.”

“Exactly.”

Jake flipped the phone over so he wouldn’t be tempted to glance at the screen every few seconds.

The past week and a half had been, frankly and disturbingly, torture. After meeting Santiago, he’d left Prospect Park feeling euphoric – a word Rosa had thrown at him (as in “You look euphoric. What’s wrong with you?”) and that he’d denied but later admitted to himself was fitting. He couldn’t have said where the euphoria came from, exactly, or why he practically floated around the precinct the rest of that day. Clearly Santiago herself had something to do with it, but he’d also thought that maybe after so long under the Vulture, he just missed feeling like he was helping people – and Santiago had reminded him that was still his job. He was still one of the good guys.

But as the days wore on with no further contact from Santiago, and as his good mood hadn’t just faded but reversed itself, he’d had to admit that Santiago herself was the central theme. And it wasn’t just that she wasn’t texting him – he hadn’t seen her byline once in the Bulletin, and he’d been looking every day. Usually three or four times a day. He wondered if she’d quit, or moved. He’d even googled her name, to see if her byline appeared in some other publication, but nothing interesting came up (other than an “Amy Santiago” who was president of the Brooklyn Buttonholers, which was either a knitting club or something much more interesting/alarming and possibly naked).

He didn’t know what to make of her sudden absence, and he didn’t want to take it personally. But it was hard not to when she’d disappeared immediately after they met. Jake hadn’t expected them to become best friends or anything like that, but he’d thought maybe they could be friendly...somethings. He was interested in getting to know more about her, anyway.

“Stop sulking and look at the interview transcript I just sent,” Rosa said.

Jake glowered at her but obediently opened his email. “Which one is this?”

“Second- no, third interview,” Rosa said.

“Bully Mom or No-Sugar Dad?”

“Vegan Dad.”

“Oh!” Jake said, perking up. “He was actually kind of fun.”

“Right?” Rosa said.

By the end of the day, they’d figured out that Vegan Dad, though extremely affable in his witness statement, was also a meth addict and solely responsible for the car break-ins. The Vulture seemed disappointed that they’d cracked the case, probably because he’d bet against them with the captain of the Eight-Four. Jake and Rosa grabbed drinks after work to celebrate both solving the case and pissing off Pembroke.

“So,” Rosa said, after they’d each tossed back a shot and were nursing beers. “What gives with this Santiago thing? Do you like her or something?”

“What? No.” When Rosa just stared, he glared back at her. “Seriously, no.”

“Just seems like you’re pretty caught up in her,” Rosa said with a small shrug.

Jake shook his head and took a long swig of beer. He had to admit that Rosa had a point. And if she’d noticed that he was bothered by what was happening, or rather not happening, with Santiago – well, that wasn’t good.

“I guess I kind of liked texting with her, and now she’s gone MIA and-” He paused, a shiver of distaste racing across his shoulders at what his next words were going to be. Rosa just stared some more, not even blinking. “Fine, I miss her. It. The texts. I liked giving her a hard time.”

“Uh huh,” Rosa said.

Jake rolled his eyes.

“I swear, that’s all there is to it.”

“Look, I don’t care if you like her or don’t like her or just want to fuck her or honestly just like teasing her over text messages – just be careful. I know you trust her-” She held up a hand when Jake started to deny it, kneejerk. “Shut up. Even if she really is a good person, she’s got a job to do and it’s not necessarily compatible with the job we do.”

“Yeah, well, it doesn’t really matter if we’re not talking anymore anyway.” Jake drained the rest of his beer and stood up. “You want another?”

“Sure.”

Jake walked up to the bar and signaled the bartender for two more. While he waited, he took out his phone to check the time. On the locked screen was a new text: “Can you talk?”

Jake quickly looked back over his shoulder at Rosa. She was leaning back in her chair, watching a pair of women playing pool with a smirk on her face.

Jake wrote back: “Not now.”

The bartender set two bottles in front of him and Jake handed over a twenty.

His phone vibrated. “Tomorrow? Can we meet in person? I can buy coffee.”

Jake studied the message, thumbs poised over the keypad. He’d be busy with Rosa most of tomorrow wrapping up the break-in case – they may have solved it, but there were a lot of loose ends that needed tying up, and it would be hard for him to steal away from Rosa without her giving him shit about it.

“Can’t meet during the day,” he wrote. “Dinner?”

He paused before sending. He could suggest they grab a beer, or even that they just meet at the park again. Dinner was a lot. Dinner was date-adjacent.

He hit send.

Her reply was immediate: “7pm. Salty Dog.”

Jake sent her a thumbs up. He made sure to wipe the grin off his face before he brought Rosa her beer.

+++

The Salty Dog was a sports bar-slash-restaurant located in a converted firehouse, therefore, Jake hated it on principle. But he gave Santiago props for picking a spot that was a good 20-minute subway ride from the precinct. He managed to get there five minutes early, but he wasn’t surprised to find her already there, sequestered in a corner table at the back of the restaurant with papers spread all around her. Jake didn’t creep on her from a distance this time, but he still managed to startle her when he walked up and said hello.

“Shit!” She dropped the papers she’d been holding in each hand. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

“You told me to meet you here.”

“No, I know, sorry.” She blew a strand of hair out of her face and began stacking her papers again, in some precise order that seemed to require a fair amount of concentration. She gave Jake a quick, apologetic smile. “Sit down. I just need a second.”

Jake took the seat adjacent to her, so they both had chairs with their backs to a wall. There were a few empty tables in the restaurant, but the place was fairly busy for a Wednesday night with no big sporting events scheduled, as far as Jake knew. He picked up one of the menus that had been left at the edge of the table and scanned through the entrees. On the one hand, the mac and cheese was $13. On the other, the place had a “build your own mac and cheese” bar.

“Okay,” Santiago said, and Jake turned back to her just as she was carefully slipping a thick folder into a messenger bag at her side. “Thanks for coming. I’m sorry I asked to meet in person again, but I needed to show you something.”

“It’s fine,” Jake said. “I think I actually prefer it this way. Texting and phone calls make me nervous. Too much of an electronic trail, you know?”

“I totally get it,” Santiago said. “I actually have an alias for you in my contact list. Just in case.”

“Oh yeah? Me too.” Jake nodded toward her phone, which was sitting on the table next to her menu. “What’s my name?”

Santiago ducked her head, a faint blush coloring her cheeks. Instead of answering, she picked up her phone and opened her contacts, then handed it to him.

“Pineapples?” Jake said. “Wait, is my picture a pineapple wearing a thong?”

“Yes.” Santiago tilted her head to the side to look at the image with him. “I wasn’t wearing my glasses when I found it, but I feel like it works?”

“Somehow, I agree.” Jake handed the phone back to her and said, “Okay, you want to know your name?”

“Yeah I do!”

Jake pulled her up on his contact list and gave her his phone.

“Eldora Senegal,” Jake announced, as Santiago snorted with laughter and slapped a hand over her mouth. “Former prostitute-turned-madame-turned-cupecaketeur, who specializes in children’s birthdays and bachelorette parties. She’s from Latvia.”

“That is very specific,” Santiago said. “But there’s no photo.”

“Yeah, I was so focused on the backstory I guess I didn’t get around to it.”

A waiter came around then, and they both ordered mac and cheese – with bacon, buffalo sauce, and jalapenos for Jake, and shrimp and kale for Santiago – and drafts. After the waiter brought their beers, Jake turned to Santiago and debated whether he should ask what she’d been up to for the past 10 days when she wasn’t texting him or, alternately, not come across as a total loser and just ask why she wanted to meet. It was a tougher call than he cared to admit.

“So, what did you need to show me?”

“Right, yeah,” Santiago said. “First though, I’m sorry I just disappeared. Or, I mean, I’m sure you didn’t even notice that we haven’t communicated in like a week and a half. But if you did- you know what? Never mind.”

She tucked another lock of hair behind her ear. She had the rest of it pulled back into a loose ponytail, wisps breaking free here and there like she’d been messing with it throughout the day. It was endearing. Jake didn’t reply to her rambling, just smiled benignly at her even as he felt a pleasant warmth in his belly.

“I’ve been on a special assignment – the jail story you gave me, actually,” Santiago said. “My editor has me working on it full time, so I haven’t been doing any other cops stories lately.”

Jake felt a swell of relief. “Special assignment. That’s great. Very, um, special.”

“It really is great,” Santiago said, beaming at him. “I mean, it’s crazy stressful and I’m terrified of letting down Holt – he’s the editor in chief. You have no idea what a big deal this is to get to work on an investigation. But it’s amazing. Anyway, today I got a ton of documents from the corrections department in response to my public records request. At first I was surprised that they’d come through so fast – I guess sometimes those requests can take months – but then I realized that they’d purposely dumped, like, every single record on me. They’re trying to overwhelm me with information.”

“Okay,” Jake said slowly, watching as she took out the same folder full of papers she’d been looking at earlier. It was at least two inches thick. “I can see how that’d be a problem, but how can I help?”

“What I need,” Santiago said, “is a system for determining which records are important. This is a sample of the kinds of papers they gave me-”

“Wait, that’s just part of it?” Jake gaped at the massive file.

“Oh my god, yes,” Santiago said. “I have three cardboard boxes filled with papers back in the newsroom.”

“Dear lord.”

“Exactly,” Santiago said. “I was sort of hoping that you could take a look at these papers and help me figure out some key words or codes to focus on. The papers are full of legal jargon and criminal codes, and I can look them up one at a time, but you must know them already.”

“I think you are way overestimating my familiarity with the New York penal code,” Jake said, but he plucked a paper off the top of the stack anyway. “Okay, for starters, you probably want to stick with the felonies. I can help you ID those. And yeah, I can help you put together a list of offenses to look for. How far back do these go?”

“I asked for five years of data,” Santiago said. She’d pulled out a notebook and was already scribbling furiously in it.

“Whoa, right there, you can ditch everything older than a year,” Jake said. “The rumors have only been going around for about six months.”

“Yeah, but this could have been going on for ages before word got out, right?”

“No way,” Jake said. “Cops are huge gossips. I’d guess the longest this has been going on is a year, and that’s stretching it.”

“Okay, that makes the story slightly less compelling but much more manageable, so I guess I’ll take it,” Santiago said with a small frown.

The mac and cheese arrived, and they decided to start going through papers while they ate. Jake scanned them for familiar codes and called out the ones that were most interesting; they both figured that if he didn’t recognize a code then it probably wasn’t common or important.

Santiago explained her plan as they went. A source in the corrections department had told her that only some inmate-lawyer meetings were recorded, and that they tended to be for suspects who were not native English speakers. So after pulling out only the most interesting and potentially damaging cases, Santiago would go through the rest looking for inmates who had requested a translator or a lawyer who spoke another language to represent them.

Jake whistled under his breath as she walked him through the reporting. That sounded like an insane amount of work, made incredibly difficult because she only had access to physical papers, instead of electronic documents that she could quickly search and sort. Santiago scoffed when he said as much.

“Yeah, the cops don’t typically like to make our jobs easier,” she said. Then she looked up, aghast. “I mean, present company excluded, obviously.”

Jake laughed. “It’s okay, a lot of cops don’t like to make my job easier either.”

He turned back to the papers, but looked up again in surprise when Santiago reached out and placed her hand on his arm.

“Seriously, Peralta, thank you,” she said. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Jake glanced at her hand on his arm, and she quickly withdrew it, picking up her fork instead to dig back into her mac and cheese.

“Jake,” he said.

“What?”

“Call me Jake,” he said. “The only people who call me Peralta are cops. And weirdly, sometimes my aunt.”

“Okay, Jake.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone's paying attention: I'll be screwing around with my posting schedule over the next few chapters, just to account for Real Life events. Chapter 5 will be up tomorrow, though.


	5. Chapter 5

Amy had entertained the idea of becoming a cop for a while in high school. She’d been in her sophomore year, when all of the Real Life conversations were just starting at school: The AP kids were obsessed with the PSAT and everyone had to go to mandatory career fairs and Amy had even started getting a few college brochures at home. Amy’s plans – though thoroughly detailed and organized – only went as far as getting into a really good college, and then figuring out the rest from there. But she’d spent a lot of time imagining herself in different jobs, and her fantasies had carouseled around becoming an internationally renowned cancer researcher, the next Sonia Sotomayor, or the youngest captain in NYPD history.

(She’d occasionally daydreamed about life as a journalist, maybe working overseas somewhere. But an actual career had seemed profoundly unrealistic. Until, one day, it wasn’t.)

She’d eventually ruled out the first two careers – scientist and judge – because science kind of bored her, if she was honest, and she didn’t have the gravitas or the social intelligence to be a leader like Sotomayor. So by default she’d leaned into the captain fantasy.

At the same time, she started to notice how many late nights and weekends her father worked, and how some nights he came home with such a deep weariness in his shoulders that her mom just hugged him and held on. She saw, too, how cops were treated. Sure, there were the folks in their neighborhood who greeted Victor Santiago by name, who were proud to have a cop in their community. But she also heard the slurs shouted from passing cars and the hissed insults when she walked with him down the street. She knew what her friends in school said about cops. Some of their hate and distrust was earned – not by her father, but by other cops – but it still upset her. Victor Santiago was a kind, decent man, in a difficult, often thankless job.

Now, sitting at her desk at 10 p.m. on a Friday night, she felt angry on his behalf as she pored over the papers she’d been studying all week. Her father – and Jake, and other good cops – worked so hard for the people in this city, and these dumbasses in corrections were just blithely stomping all over people’s rights.

The irony of it, Amy knew, was that when her story ran most readers wouldn’t know, or care, that these jerks weren’t representative of all cops – they weren’t even part of the NYPD. Which meant that the good guys would get dumped on all over again. And there wasn’t anything she could do about it, other than write the truth.

Sometimes, Amy thought, this job sucked too.

The newsroom was quiet at this hour, the crackle of her police scanner unnaturally loud. Amy tipped the sound down a bit and stretched, lifting her arms over her head and looking around. Charles was the only other person in the newsroom, typing furiously. She assumed he was working on his personal food blog because the city desk deadline had passed an hour ago. Holt’s door was closed, the office dark beyond the blinds he’d left up. Amy sighed and flipped to the next page. There was another code she didn’t recognize so she added it to her growing list of numbers to look up later.

Beside the stack of papers, her phone suddenly vibrated, and Amy instantly smiled to herself. The screen lit up with a text from Pineapples: “OMG I have a killer story for you, literally killer. Call ASAP.”

Amy laughed out loud before she could stop herself, and slapped a hand over her mouth. She replied: “Stop it! You know I can’t write anything right now.”

“Oops sorry. Hold on, texting the Times.”

“Don’t you dare,” Amy wrote.

Jake replied with a shrug emoji, followed by a devil emoji and then a series of farm animal emojis.

Amy glanced at the time on her phone, and then the stack of papers in front of her.

She wrote: “What are you doing right now? I need dinner.”

“It’s 10 p.m.”

“I know,” Amy wrote. “Been a long day.”

She realized, belatedly, that she was acknowledging that she was working at 10 on a Friday night, and also that she had no friends to ask to dinner.

“Never mind,” she quickly typed. “I’ll grab something on the way home.”

“Meet me at Mario’s on Dekalb.”

Amy turned off her computer and stuffed her papers and her notebook into her purse and was out in three minutes. She called a goodbye to Charles over her shoulder but if he replied, she didn’t catch it.

Jake was leaning against the brick wall outside the pizza place when Amy walked up, slightly out of breath. He stood up straight when he spotted her.

“Hey,” she said. “Thanks for meeting me. You probably have way better things to do on a Friday night than talk to an annoying reporter.”

He grinned. “Usually, yes. But Rosa and I spent all day on a missing dog case for one of the Vulture’s gross frat bro friends so I haven’t eaten since- actually I don’t remember when.”

Amy gaped at him and said, “Is the Vulture a person?”

“Oh yeah, he’s our captain. Pembroke,” Jake said. “He’s the worst.”

“And Rosa is-”

“My partner.”

“The one who thinks talking to me is a terrible idea,” Amy said.

“That’s her,” Jake said, still beaming. “Shall we?”

He led Amy inside the pizza spot and up to the counter, where he tried to convince her to get the all-meat pizza that somehow had five different kinds of sausage on it. Amy opted for veggie instead. They took their slices the couple blocks down to Fort Greene, where they climbed a play structure, cold and empty this late at night, and ate with their feet dangling over the side of the slide tower.

It was an unseasonably chilly night, and Amy zipped up her jacket. Jake, she noticed, was wearing a leather jacket over his hoodie now, and for some reason the contrast made her grin – like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to be cool and sexy or cozy and sweet.

“What’s so funny?” Jake said, when she ducked her head to hide her smile.

“Nothing.” Amy took a huge bite of pizza, and Jake watched in what could have been alarm or awe as she chewed – and kept chewing – and finally swallowed. “This is really good pizza.”

“That was kind of disgusting,” Jake said, “but also impressive.”

“Thank you.” Amy made a show of dabbing her lips daintily with a napkin and Jake laughed. “Did you really have a tip for me tonight, or were you just messing around?”

“Totally messing with you.”

“Thank god,” Amy said. “This story is killing me.”

She droned on for a bit then, filling him in on the reporting so far. Holt had just that day given her another two weeks to work on the story, which Amy desperately needed and was grateful for, but it also added even more pressure. When she told Jake she was compiling a list of penal codes she still needed to look up, he offered to go over it for her to save her some time. Amy hesitated, because she didn’t technically need his help for that kind of work. Eventually she told him she could handle it, and he shrugged and focused back on his pizza. She got the sense he was disappointed.

“Everyone’s been really supportive at work, at least,” Amy said. “I was worried that they’d all be mad at me, since the other reporters have to pick up my slack while I’m busy with this stuff. But even Gina’s been leaving me alone, mostly.”

“Linetti?” Jake said.

“Yeah. You read her column?”

“Sometimes.” Jake popped the last bite of crust in his mouth and balled up the wax paper the slice had come on, tossing it toward a trashcan at the edge of the play area. “We grew up together.”

Amy grinned as the paper neatly landed in the trash. Then she frowned and said, “Wait, what? You know Gina? Gina Linetti?”

“Oh yeah,” Jake said. “All the way back to kindergarten. I actually sublet her apartment now.”

“How is that even possible?”

“Subletting isn’t that weird,” Jake said.

“Shut up, loser,” Amy said, when Jake grinned at her. “How is it possible that you are friends with Gina and I had no idea?”

Jake shrugged dramatically. “I guess you’re just not that good of a reporter?”

“Jerk,” Amy said, but she actually couldn’t help but feel a little bit like an idiot.

Gina was nosy as hell, and she’d known for a long time that Amy had a source in the NYPD who was based in Brooklyn. That she hadn’t let it slip that an old friend of hers was a detective at the Nine-Nine seemed like a deliberate omission. There was no way Gina would have been able to resist not lording that kind of connection over Amy.

She was also a little annoyed that Jake hadn’t said anything, though she wasn’t going to let him know it.

“Hey,” Jake said, contrite. “I was kidding, obviously.”

“Right, I know.” Amy tried to sound casual.

“Look, I would have said something but it didn’t even occur to me.” Jake leaned back against the play structure and stuffed his hands in the pockets of his jacket. “Gina and I never talk about work – or my work, anyway. To be honest, I’m not sure she even remembers that I’m a cop.”

“That’s crazy,” Amy said, scooting back so she was sitting beside him.

Jake shot her a cynical look. “When she got her first reporting job, I told her that from now on everything I said about work was off the record. And she said, and I’m basically quoting here: ‘Fine, but you can’t talk about work anymore because it’s boring and I’m not going to be bored if I can’t even write about it.’ So I stopped talking about work. Like, ten years ago.”

Amy tried to process that but finally just shook her head. “Yeah, still crazy.”

“Well, that’s Gina.”

Amy didn’t get the sense that he was bothered by Gina’s lack of interest in his professional life – which was awful, because the line between personal and professional was incredibly blurred for most cops, to the point where it basically didn’t exist. In other words, if Jake was like almost every other cop she knew, his badge was his identity. It was everything.

But she supposed that indifference-bordering-on-negligence was a known hazard of a friendship with Gina. And Amy didn’t want to feel sorry for Jake.

Still, Amy wasn’t Gina – and she wasn’t bored.

“So, a missing dog case?” Amy said. “Really?”

“Oh yeah, it was such a waste of time. The Vulture’s always trying to give me and Rosa worthless cases but this one might have been the dumbest. The dog looked like a rat, Amy!”

Amy laughed, and Jake laughed with her, and then he launched into the Case of the Rat-Dog – capitalization noted – which had a surprising number of twists and turns, including a foray into a gelato shop that was really a mob front, and ended with the dog having simply run away to live with a better family than the Vulture’s frat-bro friend. Amy was in tears by the end and actually whooped in celebration when the dog found his forever-home.

“I can’t believe you spent your entire day tracking down a happy dog,” Amy said, wiping tears from her eyes. She was sitting cross-legged on the play structure, huddled into her jacket.

“I guess they can’t all be super cool undercover assignments,” Jake said with a sigh.

“You’ve gone undercover?”

“Sure, all the time. Once I spent six months with the mafia. But that story will wait for another night,” he said, and stood up, hissing and shaking his right leg as he got to his feet.

“Leg fell asleep?”

“Yeah,” Jake said. He pulled out his phone and his eyebrows shot up. “Which is what happens when you sit on a playground for two hours. Good lord.”

“We’ve been here that long?” Amy pulled out her own phone to check.

Jake nodded and held out a hand to her, and she took it and let him haul her to her feet. His hand was warm from his pocket and the touch sent a spark up her arm, making her shiver in a way she wasn’t sure was from the cold. He didn’t let go right away, and when Amy turned toward the stairs to climb down from the play structure, he tugged her in the opposite direction.

“You know we gots to slide,” he said, jerking his head that way.

“Jake, we’re too big-”

But Jake was pulling her in front of him, and he manhandled her onto the top of the slide and said, “Ladies first!” and gave her a shove. Amy screamed as she slipped down, surprised by how fast she was moving. She hit the lip at the bottom and toppled off, just barely managing to stay on her feet.

A second later Jake yelled, “Yippee ki yay, mother fucker!” He raced down, and when he hit the bottom he flew right off and slammed into Amy, knocking them both back into the sand.

Amy grunted as she landed hard on her back, surprised more than hurt. She felt Jake on top of her, and looked up to find his face inches from hers. She stared into his wide eyes, her heart pounding, and then he rolled off and scrambled to his knees at her side.

“Oh my god, are you okay? I had no idea that was going to happen, usually the kids’ slides aren’t that fast.” Jake’s hands hovered over her, like he thought he should be checking her for injuries but wasn’t sure if he should touch her. “Oh god, you’re hurt, aren’t you. Should I call someone? I should call 911. No, I can take you there myself. Can you walk? I can carry you to my car, I’m only a couple blocks from here-”

Amy bit the inside of her cheek. “Jake-”

“No, don’t talk-”

“I’m fine,” Amy managed before she broke down, laughing so hard she was practically wheezing.

Jake went quiet, and Amy sat up and tried to say something encouraging but just ended up collapsing into more laughter.

“I hate you,” Jake said, obviously fighting a smile. “Sincerely.”

“If you have a car,” Amy said, breathless, “could you give me a lift home? Or would you rather carry me?”

Jake smirked at her, then stood and brushed the sand off his legs before offering her a hand again.

+++

Late night dinners became a regular thing.

Jake got the feeling that Amy had reservations about how much time they were spending together, though she never said anything directly. She came armed every time with a question or request for him: a penal code she didn’t understand, his thoughts on something another source had told her, where she might track down some key piece of information she was missing. He helped when he could, but they inevitably ended up chatting about personal stuff after a few minutes.

He didn’t mind. They were both surprised to learn how similar their jobs could be, once they looked beyond who carried a gun and had the power to arrest people, and who actually knew how to use a semicolon and had the power, in theory, to take down the president of the United States.

They both regularly got phone calls from people who swore that airplane contrails were really secret government vaccination programs. They both had at least old person who sent them literal letters – like in envelopes, with stamps and everything – offering unsolicited advice on their jobs. Amy had an old woman who called her once a week to correct her grammar (“It’s not my fault! The copy desk is supposed to catch that stuff!”) and Jake had an old man who called every Tuesday to complain about the trash cans blocking his driveway after the garbage trucks came through (“I don’t know why he doesn’t call sanitation. Am I supposed to arrest the garbage man? Or woman?”). And, it turned out, both of them always answered those calls and listened and agreed that yes, their grandchildren should call more often.

“She just seems kind of lonely,” Amy said one night, as they shared a basket of deep-fried pickles at a bar all the way out in Bushwick. They tried to avoid the neighborhoods around the newsroom and the precinct and either of their homes, and though Amy didn’t always love the commutes, she had to admit it was kind of nice to shake up her routine.

“Yeah, Fred too,” Jake said. “Sometimes I wonder if he isn’t putting his own trash cans in the driveway just so he has an excuse to call me.”

They also shared somewhat pathetic dating lives. When Jake asked one night if she had a boyfriend, Amy shook her head and said she was determined to focus on her job for the moment. “I get it,” Jake said. “The NYPD doesn’t play very well in most relationships.”

They texted every day, and met up two or three times a week. Every now and then one of them would turn down the other’s invitation – they did have friends, or he at least assumed Amy did – but they usually made up for it in a day or two.

Only once did Jake hesitate with his reply, when Amy texted him late one Thursday afternoon. He’d had a rough day and he wasn’t sure if he could be his usual charming, and admittedly silly, self. After an hour, though, he texted back a thumbs up.

Amy had picked some weird sausage-based restaurant for this meeting, and Jake was relieved he didn’t have much of an appetite. He smiled when he saw her and gamely ordered a beer.

“You have to at least split a sausage platter with me,” Amy said. “My coworker swore this place is amazing but he has very questionable taste and I am not going into this alone.”

“Yeah, a friend of mine actually recommended this to me once but I couldn’t go through with it,” Jake said.

Amy ordered the platter and while they waited for the food she filled him in on the progress she’d made on the detention center story. Jake listened and nodded along, quietly drinking his beer. When he ordered a second pint, Amy looked him in the eye and said, “What’s up, Jake?”

He frowned and thought about saying nothing, nothing was up, but he didn’t really feel like lying. Instead he just shrugged, which felt passive-aggressive and pathetic but he wasn’t sure what else to do.

“Look, you don’t have to tell me anything,” Amy said, voice dropping as she leaned forward. “But you’ve obviously got something on your mind, and if you want to talk, you can.”

Jake was dismayed to feel the prickle of tears in his eyes, not from any particular grief or sadness but from the gentle tone of her voice, from the kindness she was showing him. He took a deep breath and turned away from her, willing himself not to cry. The waiter arrived then, setting a truly horrifying pile of sausage between them, and Jake couldn’t help but laugh. He blinked a few times, and his eyes were dry as he faced Amy again.

She answered his grin with a small smile of her own that didn’t reach her eyes. But as she picked up a fork and stabbed at one of the sausages – the look on her face could only be described as equal parts terrified, disgusted, and stubborn – Jake blew out a breath and decided to go for it.

“It’s not that big of a deal,” he said, opening his napkin and spreading it carefully over his lap just to have something to do with his hands. “One of my CIs died today.”

“That’s awful, Jake.” Amy dropped the fork, the sausage landing halfway on her plate and the table. “I’m so sorry.”

Jake shrugged, feeling a little like an asshole for coming across so callous, but he really didn’t do well with emotions. “He hadn’t been an informant for all that long, like three months maybe.”

“Still, you get to know them and rely on them,” Amy said. “They’re like your sources. Oh my god, I’d be devastated if something happened to you.”

Jake looked up at her and stared, feeling a little gut-punched.

“It’s not like that,” Jake said, softy.

“Not like what?”

Jake held her gaze, trying to ignore the tension that seemed suddenly strung between them, like a physical thing. He could feel his breathing coming too fast, could feel the slow flip of his stomach.

“Not like us,” he said.

He quickly looked down at his plate, coughed and cleared his throat.

“I mean, informants have a pretty short life expectancy as it is,” he said, trying to shift the subject. “They’re usually criminals, more often than not they’re talking to the cops just to keep themselves out of trouble or get a competitor off the street.”

“Right, of course,” Amy said. He glanced back up to see she was focused on her sausage again, cutting it up into bite-sized pieces but not actually eating. “Still, I’m sorry. Do you know what happened to him?”

“You mean, did he get nailed for snitching?” Jake said. Amy snapped her head up in alarm, already protesting, but Jake held up a hand and smiled faintly. “It’s okay, it’s the first question we ask. In this case, no, I don’t think so. He was found dead of an overdose.”

“Oh, that’s- good?” Amy said, flustered.

“Better than being shot, but that’s also an occupational hazard,” Jake said. He realized he felt hungry, for the first time since learning about his CI that morning, so he stabbed a sausage too. “One interesting thing, it looks like he OD’d on that new drug, Jazzy Pants.”

“Whoa, wait, new drug?” Amy said. “What’s this?” She was already digging into her purse, presumably for her notebook and pen.

Jake laughed and waved her off. “I swear, I don’t know anything else about it. The Vulture won’t let us investigate it because the Seven-Eight has a task force.”

“The 78th,” Amy muttered to herself as she wrote it down.

“Um, one more thing,” Jake said. Amy put away her notebook and looked back at him expectantly. “You won’t write about any of this, right? Like the CI, or, whatever?”

“Of course not.” Amy looked truly surprised. “Jake, this was personal. I would never do that to you.”

Jake let out his breath and nodded once. “I know. I know you wouldn’t. I just-”

“I get it,” Amy said. “Reporters have a certain reputation. But we’re not all vultures.”

Jake actually laughed at that. “Trust me, I know you aren’t a vulture.”

Amy rolled her eyes at him, but she also gave him a fond smile. They were both quiet for a while, a comfortable silence falling between them as they finally got to work on the sausages.

Jake realized after a few minutes that – despite the sausage already heavy in his stomach and the emotionally charged conversation they’d just endured – there was a lightness in his chest and his head that he couldn’t identify. It wasn’t quite happiness or relief, but something close to peace. He looked across the sausage mountain at Amy, and he smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no notes on this chapter lol. Feedback me, if you like!


	6. Chapter 6

By the end of September – eight weeks after Holt had given her permission to focus solely on the jail investigation – Amy had finally finished her story. She’d gone through nearly two weeks of edits with Terry and another few days with Holt himself. She’d triple-checked the spelling of every name and quadruple-checked every number. She’d spent hours fact-checking everything from the date the Brooklyn Detention Center opened to the backstory of the Spanish-speaking inmate who had become the main character in her article. They were set to publish the story in a few days, once Holt gave his final stamp of approval.

Except she wasn’t quite finished yet. And that was why she was sitting across from Jake in a Greenpoint diner on a Wednesday night, hands folded on top of a print-out copy of her article.

“Ordinarily I would never do this,” Amy said, glancing around the largely empty restaurant. They were seated in a back booth, an overhead lamp casting a warm yellow glow over the table. Jake looked at her expectantly, eyebrows raised.

Amy cleared her throat and went on. “I guess it’s not that uncommon for reporters to use expert sources to look over their stories, it’s just I’ve never done it. And I don’t think Terry or Holt would approve. It’s one of those Journalism 101 things: You never share your unpublished work with a source.”

Jake frowned. “You want me to read your story?”

Amy swallowed and nodded slowly.

“That’s it?” Jake glanced at the print-out.

Amy nodded again and held up the papers, tapping them on the tabletop to straighten them out. Jake held out a hand, and she gingerly handed them over, feeling nervous and guilty. She immediately began chewing on her thumbnail.

Jake flipped through the pages and said, “Wow, it’s long.”

“You don’t have to,” Amy said, reaching out to take back the papers, but Jake tucked them into his chest.

“No, I want to,” he said. “But, um, what do you need me to do? Like, look for spelling errors or-”

Amy laughed a little. “No, we’ve already gone over all of that. I need you to tell me if I got anything wrong – like, anything police-related wrong. The kind of stuff that would be obvious to a cop. And also, I want you to tell me if you think it’s fair. I really tried to be balanced and I think I managed it, but I need it to be fair, and I trust you-”

“You trust me,” Jake echoed, a smile quirking his lips.

“You know I do.”

“Okay.” Jake set the papers on the table and picked up the top one, and then wiggled his fingers at her.

“What?”

“I’m gonna need a pen.” He beamed at her. “Ideally red ink.”

Amy rolled her eyes but she obliged – red ink and all.

The next half hour was torture. Amy had ordered a BLT but she mostly just dismembered it, eating pieces of bacon and tomato and mayonnaise’d bread at random. Jake picked at his French fries as he read but mostly ignored his cheeseburger, which was shocking. Amy tried not to just sit and watch him, instead pulling up the Times crossword puzzle app to pass the time. But she kept stealing glances, especially when he’d suddenly uncap the red pen with his teeth and make a note in the margins of her story.

Finally, he turned to the last page, and when he’d finished the final paragraphs he flipped all of the papers over and folded his hands on top of them. Amy stared at him, feeling like her heart was going to beat right out of her chest. She hadn’t been this anxious handing over her first draft to Terry, or her fifth draft to Holt. Jake’s opinion, she realized with sudden clarity, mattered more than anyone else’s.

“You did it,” Jake said.

“I- yes? I did?”

“I mean, you really did it. You got the story,” he said. “Ames, this is incredible.”

Amy’s grin was involuntary, and so wide that she probably looked insane. She could tell she was blushing furiously too. Jake beamed back at her.

“You really think-”

“Yeah,” Jake said, cutting her off. “I really do.”

“Thank you, Jake.”

He pushed the papers across the table at her and said, “I do have some notes.”

Amy began flipping through the pages, pleased to find that though his handwriting was sloppy it was legible enough. He hadn’t made many notes, and most of them were more commentary than critique. On the second to last page Amy paused at a note that was just an exclamation point, and she had to muster some courage to look up at him. He was watching her.

“You quoted me,” he said.

“I did.” Amy pushed aside her half-eaten sandwich and leaned over the table toward him. “Hear me out: I will take out your quote and your name if you ask me to, no explanation necessary, I promise.”

“When did I say this?” Jake said. “I don’t remember you ever taking notes.”

“It was three weeks ago,” Amy said.

She’d been in a particularly frenzied state about the story, having reached the point where the bulk of the reporting was done but she was feeling overwhelmed by the writing task ahead and frustrated by the stonewalling she was dealing with daily from the corrections department and the NYPD. She and Jake had met for drinks that night and she’d gotten a little tipsy and gone on a rant about cops and how they were all about the power and the ego trips, and Jake had said, surprisingly gentle, “Amy, any good cop is going to be furious about what’s happening at the detention center. I’m furious about it. If all of this is true, it needs to be stopped, and I know that every decent detective in the NYPD would agree with me.”

Amy had immediately apologized for going off on him and he’d smiled and said it was okay, he knew she was exhausted. And when he’d gone to the bathroom a few minutes later, she’d taken out her notebook and written down every word he’d said.

“So, everything’s on the record now?” Jake said at the diner. His tone was teasing, but she could read the concern on his face.

“No, definitely not,” Amy said. “I’m sorry, it was really bad form for me to write down what you said like that, and I am totally serious, if you need to be taken out of the story, just say so. I won’t try to talk you out of it. Except-”

“Except?”

“Your quote is great, Jake. I think you were right, and what you said really is what most of the rest of the NYPD will believe, and that voice is important. Really important.” Amy took a deep breath. “But I mean it. I’ll take it out.”

Jake sighed and glanced away, running a hand through his hair and making the curls stand up on top. She felt terrible, suddenly, for putting him in this position – for making him choose between his career and her story, and after he’d been so helpful all these weeks.

“You know what, never mind,” Amy said. “I’m taking you out.”

“No,” Jake said. “Leave it.”

Amy studied him. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah.”

“Thank you,” she said, shoulders slumping a little with relief. “So much.”

Jake scratched his neck and chuckled. “Honestly? I’m kind of glad you’re quoting me. After all this time, both our names will actually be in one of these stories. It’s nice.”

He smiled shyly at her, and Amy ducked her head, tucking her hair behind her ears.

“I, um, actually thought the same thing. It felt good to type your name.” Amy closed her eyes and grimaced. “Wow, that sounded super nerdy, even to me.”

Jake laughed, and so did Amy, and for a moment they just grinned like two dorks at one another.

+++

They took the subway back to Amy’s neighborhood together, because Jake pretty much always walked her home. She’d said to him, the first time he’d insisted, that she didn’t need an escort. But Jake had responded by describing three gruesome murders that had happened in her zip code and eventually she’d relented just to get him to shut up.

They got to the platform just as their train was leaving, and at that time of night on the G it was another 20 minutes for the next one, but Amy didn’t mind. Now that the pressure was off Jake reading the story – and seeing his name in print – she felt practically breezy, even as they went over his notes and Amy pestered him for more critiques. He seemed hesitant at first about giving her honest feedback beyond the notes he’d scribbled, but by the time their train finally arrived he was picking apart word choices and Amy had to remind him that the story had already been through two editors, including Holt, who had once been a finalist for the Pulitzer Prize.

“What were you going to tell them if I asked you to take my name out of the story?” Jake said, as they headed up the subway stairs to Myrtle.

Amy chewed her lower lip for a minute and finally admitted, “I hadn’t figured that out yet. I was really hoping you’d be okay with it.”

“Good for you that I’m so generous,” Jake said, nudging her shoulder with his.

She jostled him back, and they walked in a companionable quiet for a couple of blocks, past Amy’s bodega and the shoe repair shop that smelled so nice and the laundry service that was her guilty pleasure because they always folded her sheets so crisply. She loved her neighborhood, most of all this time of year, when the leaves were turning and the air was cool and dry, and smelled of wood smoke. Soon she’d start treating herself to the warm pierogies and hot chocolate from the Polish place that she only indulged in when the weather was cold.

She should take Jake there – the thought made Amy smile to herself. The owner, an ancient Polish woman who seemed to speak no English but always clasped Amy’s hands in both of her own and kissed her on the cheek, would love Jake, who was never more charming than when he was wooing an old lady. She’d witnessed it the first time when they’d met at the Cuban bakery where Amy had been buying pastelitos for years, never speaking more than three or four words to any of the employees. Jake had walked out with a box of free pastries from the owner herself after one visit.

Jake stopped when they reached her building, standing in front of the stairs that led up to her door. He said, “So when is this story going to be in the newspaper?”

“Why, you want to get up early and buy extra copies?” she said, trying to keep a straight face.

“No, I want to know what day I should call in sick to work,” Jake said. “They can’t fire me if they can’t find me.”

Amy’s face fell. “Do you really think you’ll get in much trouble?”

Jake shrugged one shoulder, but he was smiling, his face half-lit from the glow cast by a streetlight.

“It’ll be worth it,” he said. “Whatever happens.”

His eyes locked on hers, and Amy felt her breath catch. He leaned into her, gaze sliding to her mouth. She felt his hands on her waist and closed her eyes, tilting her head up to him, and his mouth brushed hers, his lips dry and warm. He pulled away with a sigh, and she pushed back into him and kissed him, insistent and hungry. She opened her mouth to his and curled a hand around the back of his neck, fingers scratching up into his hair. His arms wrapped around her, hands sliding under her jacket, holding her close. She was lightheaded, adrift in the taste and the smell of him, in the flutter of her heart and the warmth pooling in her stomach.

And then she gasped and pushed him away with a hand on his chest. She could feel his heart pounding.

“Jake, we can’t,” Amy said, breathless and bewildered, cursing herself.

Jake stared at her, loosening his hold on her so his hands rested on her hips. His mouth was open and he looked dazed, his eyes shining in the faint light.

“I like you,” Jake said. “I thought- I felt like you might like me too.”

“I do,” Amy said, and she placed her palm flat, over his heart. “I do. But god, this is so unethical. I knew we were becoming friends, and maybe- but I shouldn’t have let it get this far. I just, I can’t, Jake. I’m sorry.”

Jake held her gaze, and when he finally looked away Amy was heartbroken. He placed his hand over hers on his chest, and he squeezed her fingers and then he let go, and took a step back.

“Okay,” he said. “Okay.”

Amy knew it wasn’t okay, not even a little bit, but she let him walk away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ Feel free to vent in the comments!


	7. Chapter 7

Jake found out the story had published when he was woken up far too early on Sunday by an explosion of text messages. There were a dozen from Gina alone, mostly demanding to know why he had gone on the record with Amy when Gina was his lifelong best friend, damnit. There were two texts from Rosa; the first read “what the hell, Jake” and the second “WHAT THE HELL.” The Vulture had also texted but Jake didn’t bother opening that one.

There was nothing from Amy.

Jake let that particular gut-punch sink in. He hadn’t heard from her since he’d lost his damned mind and kissed her, and he thought it was possible he’d never hear from her again.

When his phone dinged again, he picked it up to find another text from Gina (“srsly man wtf”) and wrote back with a shrug emoji and a heart-kiss emoji and three fruit emojis. He ignored the Vulture. He took a deep breath and called Rosa.

“What the hell, man?”

“On a scale from no-one-reads-the-Bulletin-anyway to maybe-the-FBI-is-hiring, how much trouble do you think I’m in?” Jake said.

“A lot.”

Jake pressed his hand to his eyes and groaned.

On the other end of the line he could hear Rosa rustling around, doing god knew whatever she did on her weekends, but she didn’t speak for a long time and the silence was unnerving. Finally, she said, “Did you know?”

“About the story? Or about my name being in it?” Jake said.

“Either. Both.”

“Yes.”

More dead air, and then Rosa said, “You’re a moron, you know that.”

“Yep.”.

Rosa sighed, said, “I’ll see you tomorrow, dummy,” and ended the call.

Jake stared at the dark screen for a while, then he stuffed the phone under his pillow, rolled over, pulled his blanket up over his head and went back to sleep.

+++

The professional fallout wasn’t as bad as he expected. The Vulture was furious, of course. When Jake finally called him Pembroke screamed for a while and told him his pasty white ass would be glued to his desk chair for the foreseeable future but he didn’t actually make any formal threats. The Vulture did demand to know why Amy had contacted Jake of all possible detectives in the NYPD – something that Jake realized he should have anticipated and prepared an answer for – and he panicked and said Gina must have offered him up. That set off a whole new round of yelling about Jake having friends in the media, but he mostly zoned out on that part.

Around noon, Scully called to tell Jake that officially, the brass did not approve of him talking to a reporter without permission. But unofficially, they were pleased that Jake’s quote gave the NYPD some protection from a story that was destroying the corrections department.

“You didn’t hear it from me,” Scully said, “but you got us more positive press with that quote than I have all year.”

Scully giggled then and asked if Jake wanted to join him for chicken wings.

+++

The personal fallout was far worse.

Jake had been swinging widely between shame and confusion in the immediate aftermath of being soundly rejected by Amy. He couldn’t figure out how he’d misread the situation so badly, to have thought that she might be interested.

But he realized after the story came out that the mood swings were really just denial, because as soon as he saw her name in cold, black print on top of her article, a depression washed over him. The sadness came in waves, at times so dense he felt like he couldn’t breathe, and others like a gray mist that muted the world around him. He stayed in bed for most of the day and only left the apartment to pad down to the corner bodega – in pajama pants and a T-shirt and slippers – so he could buy an actual copy of the Bulletin and further torture himself.

He couldn’t decide if it made things better or so much worse that he hadn’t even noticed that he was falling for Amy. The past few weeks, as he’d felt them becoming close, he’d been intrigued and bemused by the friendship developing between them. He’d certainly noticed that Amy was beautiful, and that she was smart and funny and kind. But it was only standing with her in front of her apartment, her eyes reflecting the light of the streetlamp, the stress and the excitement about her story practically making her glow from within, that he’d realized he wanted to kiss her.

Or maybe his feelings had started to boil over a little before that, when he was walking her home in the dark and the idea had come to him, out of nowhere, that he wanted to hold her hand. Or maybe it had started at the diner, when Amy had said she liked typing his name and Jake hadn’t actually thought she was a big nerd – he’d thought about her fingers tapping out the letters of his name, and he’d felt chills on the back of his neck.

Or maybe it had been a dozen times before that one night, moments like droplets collecting over the past several weeks until he was drowning in them.

Jake wondered if he should call Amy – ask her to reconsider, or even to explain to him how this could have happened. She was smart. She would probably have some ideas. But then he remembered the guilt and the horror on her face at having committed an ethical crime, and he knew he couldn’t call. Her moral code was something he’d admired in her from the first time he’d read a story of hers, when he’d given her the tip about the cop who killed his ex-girlfriend. He wasn’t going to be the one to compromise that, not any more than he already had. And even if he did call, nothing could happen between them, not anymore. He would never ask her to put her professional ethics aside for him. Not for some cop.

He still hoped she might call or text. Just to let him know.

+++

It was getting close to midnight and he was already back in bed with the lights out when he couldn’t take it anymore and wrote a text. It said: “Congrats.” He added an explosion emoji, deleted the emoji, then hit send.

He was sliding the phone under his pillow when it vibrated in his hand.

The text from Eldora Senegal said: “Can we meet?”

+++

Jake sat on a swing in the playground, wishing he hadn’t forgotten his jacket before ducking out to meet her. He was sure the only reason he’d gotten there first was because he lived nearby, but he still couldn’t help the nerves in his stomach – the worry that she was going to text him any minute to say she’d changed her mind. Or maybe she just wouldn’t show up.

He wasn’t sure what he was expecting from her. He just knew he wanted to see her.

He kicked his feet in the sand, pushing himself back a few inches, and buried his hands in the pockets of his hoodie. The swing seat was damp and the chill of it was soaking into his jeans, making him shiver. He startled when he caught movement in his peripheral vision, and planted his feet to stop the swing. Amy stood at the edge of sand, almost entirely in shadow, but he knew her profile, recognized the curve of her cheek. She walked over silently and sat in the swing beside his.

They drifted a little in their swings, not talking. Then Amy said, not much louder than a whisper, “Did you get in any trouble?”

“Not really,” Jake said, eyes on the ground. “The Vulture yelled a bunch, but that’s kind of his thing. Honestly? I think you made a lot of people in the NYPD pretty happy today.”

“But not you.”

“No,” Jake said, carefully. “Proud. Impressed. But no, not happy.”

Amy dug the toes of her shoes into the sand, rocking on her swing. He felt bad telling her the truth, but he would have felt worse if he’d lied.

“Today was amazing,” Amy said, after a few minutes of silence. Jake glanced at her, but she was staring at her feet, and her voice hadn’t actually reflected her words. “All of these politicians were on Twitter condemning the corrections department. The mayor himself said he’s going to open an investigation. The New York Times actually had a story online today quoting my article. And tomorrow I’m going on NPR to talk about it. The Brian Lehrer Show, Jake!”

She took a deep breath, and when she glanced up, Jake could see that her eyes were too bright. “A bunch of my coworkers took me out tonight to celebrate, and even Holt came out with us, and I was so proud of myself. But all I could think about was how much it sucked that I couldn’t talk to you.”

Jake felt dizzy with uncertainty and relief and longing, and a dozen other emotions he couldn’t pin down. He opened his mouth but had no idea what to say.

Amy said, “So from there I sort of spiraled and just kept thinking, what if I never talk to you again, or never see you again? And I know that’s dumb because I’d probably see you around even if I was trying to avoid you, but what if you didn’t ever want to see me, because of- what happened. I would hate that. I don’t want that.”

“Amy, if you want to be friends-”

“No,” Amy said. “I don’t want that.”

“Then-” Jake stopped, swallowing his words, suddenly afraid of the hope swelling in his chest.

But Amy was getting up from her swing, and she stood in front of him, so his knees bumped against her legs. She grabbed the chains of his swing in her fists and held him steady. He looked up at her face, his heart hammering, his palms sweaty.

“I like you, Jake,” Amy said. “And I don’t want you to be my source, and I don’t want us to be professional or- transactional. I just want you.”

She pulled his swing toward her and dipped her head down to his and kissed him. There was no doubt in her kiss, no hesitation, and he kissed her back fiercely, planting his hands on her hips to hold her closer. She moved her hands to cup his face and her fingers were freezing from holding the cold chains, and the feeling against his flushed cheeks was electric. He groaned into her mouth and she kissed him harder, tongue diving between his lips. She kissed like she couldn’t get enough, like she needed something from him, something only he had.

But eventually they did slow down, kisses evolving into nips and tastes. By then they were both shivering from the cold. Jake kissed her closed mouth and pulled back just enough to meet her eyes, and she smiled coyly at him. She stood over him, her cheeks pink and her lips swollen, her hair falling out of its ponytail in wisps all around her face, and she was breathtaking.

He kissed her again, felt her lips curl into another smile against his, then stood up and wrapped his arms around her, tucking her in close.

“What do we do now?” he said, pressing his face into her hair.

“Your place?” Amy said. “It’s closer.”

Jake laughed and squeezed her tight, then stepped back and took her hand, and led her across the sand and out of the park. It had to be getting close to 1 a.m., and they both had work in the morning, and apparently Amy had an important radio thing, but he couldn’t imagine sleeping any time soon – not when she was here with him, when she’d come back to him, and there was so much to talk about and he just wanted to make out with her all night.

He was the one spiraling now, in the best way. The relief and euphoria were almost overwhelming. He let go of her hand and looped his arm around her shoulders instead, drawing her into his side, and she slipped an arm around his waist.

“Are you sure about this?” he said, after they’d walked a bit in silence. He wasn’t sure what he meant by ‘this’ – the kissing and holding, or that they were going back to his apartment possibly to have sex, or that they were maybe dating, if not now sometime very soon.

“Yes,” Amy said, the certainty in her voice reassuring. “I actually did some research.”

“Research on what?” Jake said, smiling at her profile.

“Journalism ethics,” Amy said. “There are a ton of thought pieces on dating sources – which is never appropriate, by the way. But the consensus seems to be that sometimes you can’t help who you fall for, and there are best practices for transitioning from a professional reporter-source relationship to a personal one.”

“Best practices, huh? Sounds romantic,” Jake said. He paused at an intersection and nuzzled her ear.

Amy laughed and pulled her head away. “First, I meant what I said – you can’t be my source anymore.”

“That’s okay, I’ll just find someone else to tell all my secrets to,” Jake said, pulling her along as they started walking again.

Amy slapped his arm. “You will not!” He shot her a look, surprised by the intensity of her response, and she just shrugged. “I know, ‘democracy dies in darkness,’ the Fourth Estate, freedom of speech, whatever – if I don’t get your secrets, no one does.”

“Okay, honestly, your possessive side is pretty hot,” Jake said.

She shot him a smile with a bit of an edge to it, and Jake felt a chill run up his spine. Then she said, “But seriously, no more tips, no more leads, no more quoting you.”

“All right,” Jake said, but he slowed down as they approached his building, and he thought over what her words meant. “Except, this is sounding a lot like my Gina arrangement, and I don’t think I can do that with you. Are you saying I can’t talk about my job at all?”

“No, of course not.” Amy stopped them and turned to face him, wrapping both arms loosely around his shoulders. “You can tell me anything, it’s just all off the record. If you say something that I think is newsworthy then I might ask you if I can pass it on to another reporter, but I won’t ever write about it myself.”

Jake considered that and nodded. “And you think that’ll work?”

“Sure,” Amy said with a grin. “It’s not like most of what you say is very interesting anyway.”

“Hurtful.”

“Interesting as in newsworthy,” Amy said, chuckling. “Like, when you talk about the Vulture – that’s great gossip. And you know I want to hear all about whatever’s going on in the cold war between Rosa and the IT guy.”

“Heidi,” Jake said.

“Right, Heidi from IT who is a man who is either in love with Rosa or wants to murder her with the internet,” Amy said. “See? That’s great stuff. But not anything I’d ever write about. So you keep that coming.”

Jake nodded along, and he thought they could do this – they could be together and maybe both of their careers could survive and neither of them would have to do anything horribly unethical that would be a betrayal to their very soul.

“You’re really sure,” Jake said anyway.

“I am,” Amy said. “Now please, can we go upstairs and get in your bed? It’s stupid cold out here.”

He kissed her, hard and fast on the lips, and grabbed her hand and tugged her inside.

And they had sex, and it was incredible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Re: the end of the chapter. It's for teen-and-up audiences! There will be nothing explicit in this story.
> 
> FYI: The next update won't be for another week. I'm going to be off in the wilderness for a few days with no access to, well, anything. Assuming I don't fall off a cliff, Chapter 8 should be up next Sunday. At least I left things at a not-terrible place?


	8. Chapter 8

Amy woke to a face full of sunshine.

She squinted her eyes closed and groaned, burying her face in her pillow. Several thoughts came to her, one right after another: Her pillow smelled weird, her pillow  _ felt  _ weird, and she had not once in the three years she’d lived in her apartment woken up with the sun in her face. Amy blinked her eyes open and rolled onto her back, and the night washed over her again, every lovely bit of it. She smiled up at the ceiling over Jake’s bed and then turned and smiled at the man himself.

He was asleep, curled up on his side facing her. His hair was a fluffy mess. One hand was tucked under his pillow, the other folded into a loose fist. Amy remembered falling asleep with his arm around her waist, holding her to him, but they must have separated in the night and now she was happy to indulge in watching over him.

She’d noticed from the moment they met that he was attractive, but over all of their shared meals and late-night outings, she’d never really taken stock of him: his full lips, his sharply defined cheekbones that were so often disguised by a smile or laugh, the dimple in his chin and the single, perfect curl that dipped over his forehead. His face, normally so expressive, was smooth in sleep and she thought about tracing the line of his brow, the ridge of his nose, the curve of his jaw. She thought about kissing his eyelids and waking him up.

When Jake had kissed her that first time a few days ago, she’d been momentarily overpowered by a physical attraction to him – and that was all she had thought it was, a gut-deep desire for a man who was undeniably hot. So she’d pushed him away, because kissing (that would likely to lead to much more than kissing) was absolutely not okay between reporters and their sources. Intimacy of any sort led to bias and poor decision making; it turned journalism into a trade industry.

Amy’s guilt and shame had been so profound that night that she swore she’d been marked in some way, as though even strangers would see her failure written on her face. It occurred to her that they had practically been dating for weeks -- that even before he kissed her, before she kissed him back, she had crossed a line. She felt awful for herself, for having betrayed her own moral code, and she felt awful for Jake, whom she had obviously misled.

So it was a gift that the next several days flew by in a crush of anxiety and exhilaration as she finally put her article to bed. She had no time to dwell on her personal mistakes when she was arguing over headlines with Terry and Charles and writing and rewriting every photo caption and fact-checking every detail, from the numbers in her bar charts to the hyperlinks and hashtags they would use on social media. On Saturday she convinced Charles to print out page proofs so she could do one last edit of the printed version of her story, and she suggested word choice and grammar revisions until finally, when they were on the verge of what was sure to be an embarrassing slap-fight over an Oxford comma, Charles shoved her out the front doors and told her she needed to relax and let someone wash her hair.

“I have just the person in mind,” he called after her, as Amy stomped down the block.

She’d slept fitfully that night, waking up just about every hour to check her phone. At daybreak, a post from the Bulletin Twitter account went out. Her favorite brother sent her a congratulatory email that Amy read over a breakfast of plain toast because she couldn’t stomach anything else. By noon, the story was viral (at least locally – it was never going to make The Daily Show, Amy kept reminding herself).

When the mayor announced on Twitter that he was personally looking into the jail situation and linked to Amy’s story, she was stunned and elated. And she was blindsided by a wave of sadness: She missed Jake.

She missed his smile and the way his eyes went soft when she was talking about something personal. She missed the way he tugged at his hair when he was looking over the documents she’d asked him to read for her. She missed his forearms when he rolled up his sleeves and the way his one eyebrow quirked when he laughed.

She even missed the gummy worms he consumed by the handful when they were meeting at a bar and he got snacky while translating penal codes, and she missed the ketchup and orange soda stains on her documents, and she missed having to rearrange all of her papers when she got home because he never paid attention to her tabs.

She just missed him. And she missed sharing this success with him.

Later in the day, when Gina had texted that the newsroom was getting drinks and it was definitely not because of her story but because they were all bored, Amy had been sitting at her laptop with a dozen tabs open on her browser for essays on journalism ethics and dating sources. She’d joined them for drinks because it seemed pathetic not to, and she’d been honestly touched by their support. But she’d also been miserable, because all she could think was that she’d messed up everything. Her life was amazing, and she’d screwed it all up.

Then Jake had texted. Just seeing his dumb code name appear on her screen had made her heart leap into her throat, and she’d known then that she couldn’t let him go. She had to at least see him, and try.

Now, she really did have it all. And lying in his bed, with the sun in her face and the smell of him in her (his) pillow, she felt content to just be. So she stared at him for a while, until the sun had shifted enough that it was blocked by the partly drawn curtains, and it dawned on her – so to speak – that she couldn’t remember if she’d set her alarm and she had no idea what time it was. She panicked for just a moment and quickly rolled over, hand slapping on the bedside table for her phone. She squinted at it – her contact lenses felt glued to her eyeballs – and sighed when she saw that she was only five minutes past her alarm.

Of course, she was going to need to go home and shower before going into work, and she’d wanted to go in early so she could check in with Terry and Holt before heading to Manhattan for the NPR interview, and she obviously hadn’t laid out her clothes the night before or set the timer on her coffeemaker.

Amy glanced at her phone again and did some quick math and decided that if she skipped coffee and didn’t wash her hair – it was just radio, it wasn’t like she had to look great – and planned her outfit on the way to her apartment then she could save six minutes, which still wasn’t ideal but she could make it work.

But then she glanced back at Jake, and the sudden pulse of affection for him pushed everything else aside. She could be a little late. She kissed his forehead, just beneath the curl, and each of his eyelids, and she covered his hand with her own as he blinked his eyes open and smiled back at her.

+++

Amy ended up texting Terry to tell him she was going straight into the city for her interview and he said that was fine. She didn’t get into the newsroom until noon, and by then she was famished and caffeine-deprived and still practically vibrating with joy. Her story had been a huge success and she had kissed the man she really, really liked and she’d had sex – three times! – the night before. The fact that they hadn’t fallen asleep until nearly 3 a.m. – because: three times – wasn’t a problem. Amy felt like she might never need to sleep again.

She spent the day working on a follow-up story around the mayor’s plan to investigate the jail recordings. She also fielded several unpleasant phone calls from the head of the corrections department and his deputies, until one of them demanded a full retraction and she finally had to pass them on to Terry and Holt to deal with, which was fine by her. They both had her back, and she’d never doubted they would, but it was still nice to be supported. So nice, actually, that by the end of the day, as Terry was editing her story, she started feeling guilty again.

“I have to tell you something,” Amy said, or rather blurted, when Terry had finished editing. It was 6 p.m. and it had been a pretty slow day so the newsroom was mostly cleared out; only Hitchcock was left, and he had his head pillowed on his arms at his desk and was snoring.

“Terry doesn’t love the sound of that,” he said, narrowing his eyes at her. “Oh man, are you quitting? You’re going to the Times already? I thought we’d get at least another year out of you.”

“No!” Amy said, then, “Wait, what? You think I’ll be at the Times in a year?”

“Uh-”

“Wow.” Amy tried to think of a more appropriate response. “That’s- wow.”

She sort of spaced out for a moment, until Terry cleared his throat and said, “You had something to tell me?”

“Oh, right. I did.” Amy shook herself out of her Times fantasy and reminded herself of the task at hand. Immediately, nerves made her stomach flutter and her palms sweat.

She’d considered waiting a while to tell her bosses about Jake, just long enough for them to actually start dating and see where things were headed. But that was her fear speaking, and she knew she had to do what was right. She swallowed hard, working up the courage to tell Terry. She really liked her job, and she was pretty sure they weren’t going to fire her but they were almost definitely going to make her change beats, which was going to be disappointing. But she had to be up front with them.

“Santiago-”

“I’m boinking my source!”

It came out as a sort of squeak-yell and Amy was glad no one else was around to hear her.

“Um, I mean, I’m dating him. Well, I guess not technically dating yet, but sleeping with him. You know, like-” She mashed her hands together in a movement that definitely didn’t connote sex, unless it was really bad sex.

“Yeah, I think I’ve got it,” Terry said, sounding both perplexed and slightly amused. “Well, this is...something that we need to talk to Holt about.”

Terry stood up and peered around her at Holt’s office.

“Now?” Amy felt suddenly like she might faint.

“It’s as good a time as any,” Terry said. He gently took Amy’s elbow and steered her across the newsroom. “He’s thrilled with your article and the response it’s gotten.”

“He is?” Amy said, pride pushing aside her nerves for a moment. “I mean, I knew he was pleased, but thrilled? Did he say that? Or are you just inferring? Because if he said that-”

“I can just tell,” Terry said. He paused outside Holt’s open office door. “Just be honest with him. And don’t say ‘boinking.’”

“Roger that.”

Terry tapped on the door before leading Amy inside. He asked if Holt was busy, and Holt said, “I’m always busy,” but he put down his pencil and invited them to sit.

Somehow, Amy pulled herself together. She explained, calmly, that she had developed feelings for someone who used to be a source, and that they had decided to start dating. She said that she had already informed him that she would no longer be able to use him as a source, and that if he told her anything newsworthy she would pass it on to one of her colleagues. She expressed that she wanted to keep covering the police beat, but she would understand if they didn’t trust her in that position anymore, and she would happily accept any new assignment they offered. When she was done, she folded her hands in her lap and squared her shoulders and forced herself not to think about what would happen if they fired her.

“I see,” Holt said, with no inflection that Amy could discern. “Well, it would seem as though you’ve taken the necessary precautions and insulated yourself from potential bias as well as possible. I see no reason you cannot remain on the police beat, for now. But note, I will be paying close attention, as will Terry, and if one of us believes you are compromised we will take action.”

Amy blinked, stunned that she was going to be allowed to keep covering cops. She smiled and nodded sharply, then stood up and stuck out her hand. Holt looked at her outstretched hand for a moment and then smiled a little and shook it. His grip was firm, and so was hers.

“I promise I won’t let you down, sir,” Amy said.

She turned and strode out of his office. She was just outside the door when she heard Holt say, “She knows she doesn’t have to call me ‘sir,’ right?”

“I don’t think so,” said Terry.

+++

Jake was pleased for Amy that her conversation about dating a cop had gone over so well with her bosses. It clearly helped ease her mind to have their blessing – or at least their not-firing – and that was great, he wanted her to be as relaxed and stress-free and not-guilty as possible when it came to being with him.

But there was no universe in which he was planning to similarly come out to the Vulture, or just about anyone else in the NYPD. He’d probably tell Rosa at some point – maybe, eventually; most likely after she figured it out on her own and forced it out of him – and it wasn’t like he expected to sneak around with Amy for the foreseeable future. He just would rather keep it between them (and Amy’s bosses) for the moment.

He was still in awe that there even was a them.

Jake knew he didn’t have much of a tolerance for wide-swinging emotions. In fact, his grasp on his own emotional health was at times staggeringly bad. He did a decent job keeping his feelings under control day to day – denial and compartmentalization were his go-to coping mechanisms and he excelled at both (thanks, Roger Peralta) – but when strong emotions hit, they hit hard.

Once, during a department-mandated therapy session after a lengthy undercover stint, a counselor had told Jake that he’d benefit from developing a toolbox of decompressing strategies for when things got rough. For some reason Jake had found the suggestion hilarious, imagining a literal toolbox filled with hammers and wrenches and pliers. When he’d mentioned it to Rosa, she’d said that bashing things with tools was exactly what she did when she was angry – that or glass-blowing – and Jake had actually bought a toolbox online that day. It was currently collecting dust in the back of his sneaker closet.

So yeah, he wasn’t great with emotions. And the past few days had involved a dizzying array of them. After the depressing lows that had followed their first kiss, the pure elation of their second kiss had been almost overwhelming. Jake had felt lighter and happier the next day than he could ever remember. He’d also felt exhausted, though it was a satisfied, dreamy, peaceful kind of fatigue.

They’d seen each other again that night, and every night after for the rest of the week, and though they’d had sex they hadn’t actually slept together again. They’d ordered takeout and turned on a movie and basically made out (and more) on his or her sofa until one of them yawned and they agreed it was late and they both had to get up early. It was kind of perfect.

Amy was kind of perfect.

But by Friday Jake had decided they needed a proper date, and so he chose a restaurant and made a reservation and texted Amy that he’d pick her up at 7. Then he and Rosa got called to a dead body, and a suspect in an unrelated robbery case they’d been working for two weeks had literally tripped over their crime scene, and by 6 Jake was covered in blood and subway muck and still had a report to finish. He texted Amy to tell her he’d meet her at the restaurant.

Which was how he arrived at their first official date almost half an hour late, hair still damp from the shower, fumbling the knot of his necktie as he pushed through the crowded foyer to the host station.

“What happened to your face?” Amy said, when he got to her side.

“What?”

Amy brushed her fingers over her own cheek and Jake did the same, wincing when he touched the small cut. “Oh, that.”

The host came then and glared a lot, but he took them to a table despite Jake’s tardiness. It was an intimate restaurant, quiet and dark with small tables clustered close together. The host handed them menus with a sneer that Jake had to believe was not in the employee handbook.

“Sorry I’m late,” Jake said, once they were seated.

Amy smiled back at him and shrugged. “I get the feeling it’s something I’m going to get used to.”

“You look nice,” he said. “I like the dress.”

“It’s not a dress, it’s a skirt and blouse,” Amy said, and then grimaced. “But, thank you. You look nice too. I’ve never seen you in a tie before.”

Jake ducked his head and ran a hand self-consciously over the wrinkled necktie. He’d only had time for about a two-minute shower at the precinct before coming straight to the restaurant. He was just lucky he always kept a spare tie and a semi-clean shirt shoved in the back of his desk for emergency court dates.

“So what happened today?” Amy gestured again to his face.

“It’s actually an insane story.”

“Wait!” Amy said, holding up a hand. “Like, the kind of insane I’d want to write an article about? Or insane like, your job is disgusting and/or hilarious but not fit for print?”

“Definitely the latter,” Jake said.

“Go on, then.” Amy leaned toward him, resting her chin in her hand.

“So Rosa and I got called to a dead body on the subway tracks near Bergen. But when we get there, the dead body’s actually a dog, and it’s been turned inside-out. Like, nose to tail. And the smell-”

Jake paused because Amy was shooting him a wide-eyed warning glare and darting her eyes back and forth. He looked to either side and saw that their dining neighbors were staring at him with looks of utter horror. The woman to his left set her utensils on the table and shoved her plate away.

“Uh, I’ll tell you the rest later,” Jake said.

“I think that would be best.”

They exchanged embarrassed smiles, and Jake said, “Well, what about you? How was your day?”

“Pretty good, actually,” Amy said. “It’s nice being back on the regular police beat after all that time on the jail story. Like today, I got to do this story on a severed head-”

“Oh! The one they found in the fish tank?”

“Yes!” Amy said. “You know about that case? It’s so crazy.”

“So crazy!” Jake said. “You should see the photos.”

Jake was reaching for his cell phone in his jacket pocket when he spotted the same lady on his left staring at him with murder in her eyes. He glanced back at Amy, who was getting the same death glare from a different diner.

“Maybe later,” Amy said weakly.

They turned to their menus then, each fairly mortified. After they’d ordered, Jake grasped for a more appropriate topic, and finally asked Amy to tell him more about some of her coworkers.

“I’m always going on about the Vulture,” he said. “What’s your boss like?”

“Oh god, nothing like Pembroke,” Amy said. “Terry, he’s my regular editor, he’s really gentle and supportive but he knows how to get the best out of you. And Holt is incredible. He’s so smart and ethical and detail-oriented, and he has impeccable news judgment. He’s the most impressive man I’ve ever met.”

“So, what you’re saying is I should be jealous of your editor.” Jake smirked at her.

Amy turned red and said, “No! He’s great but he’s not- I mean, I love Holt, but I’m not in love with him.”

Jake fully laughed, and it occurred to him that his maybe-girlfriend was not exactly suave and that he maybe found that adorable.

Amy waited out his laughter with only a mild look of annoyance, then asked Jake to tell her more about Rosa. “Police partnerships must be so intense. I bet you know everything about each other.”

“I know her first and last name and that she lives somewhere in Brooklyn,” Jake said. He hesitated and thought that over. “Probably.”

“Oh,” Amy said, face falling. The waiter arrived then with their dinner salads, and Amy leaned toward him and said, in a low voice, “Jake, are we bad at this?”

He didn’t respond right away. Things were undeniably weird. And he supposed some of that was to be expected, given that they’d always had a kind of invisible barrier between them when they’d met in public – a professional line they couldn’t cross. He snapped his fingers then, startling Amy into dropping her fork.

“I’ve got it,” he said. “I think things were easy before because we were always surrounded by all your notes and binders, and they were like, I don’t know, a fortress keeping out the weird.”

“Okay,” Amy said, slowly. “So you need me to bring binders next time? Because I can do that.”

“No,” Jake said, shaking his head. “Not binders – liquor.”

“What?”

“Conversation grease,” he said, lifting a hand to get their waiter’s attention. “Four shots of-” He glanced at Amy, who shrugged. “Your medium-est shelf whiskey.”

+++

They stumbled back to Amy’s place from the restaurant, both of them a pleasant sort of tipsy that was warm and giggly and affectionate, Jake’s arm slung around Amy’s shoulders, her fingers tucked into the back of his belt. When she let them inside, Jake backed her into the wall beside her front door and kissed her, clumsy and teasing. She fisted his tie in one hand to pull him closer and felt him smile against her lips.

“You,” she said, tipping her head back to speak, “are an amazing detective.”

He quirked an eyebrow at her. “I know,” he said, “but maybe be more specific?”

“The way you figured out why things were weird and then fixed it,” Amy said, and she cupped a hand over the back of his neck and pulled him toward her again, lips brushing against his. “That was brilliant.”

“Dear lord, you are good at this,” Jake said.

Then they stopped talking for a while. Jake took her hand and led them back to her bedroom, where he gently pushed her onto the bed and sprawled out beside her, and they undressed each other slowly and had sex on top of the bedspread, their bodies illuminated by the light coming from the hallway and the streetlamps outside her windows. After, Jake pulled the quilt she kept folded at the end of the bed up over them, and they laid facing each other, arms tucked under their heads.

“You never told me where you got this,” Amy said, brushing her fingertips against the shallow cut on his cheek.

He wrapped his hand around hers and kissed her fingers, one at a time, before answering.

“This robbery suspect Rosa and I had been looking for, he showed up at the dog-body crime scene, like out of nowhere. I think he was just going to get the train. He freaked out when he saw us and took off down the subway tracks, we pursued, and when I took him down we sort of scuffled and I guess he got in a hit or two.” Jake shrugged. “I didn’t even know he’d hit me until we got back on the platform and Rosa said something. I was way more focused on the fact that I was covered in subway slime.”

Amy shuddered at the thought. “I hope you’re up to date on your vaccines. I bet you can get diseases you’ve never even heard of from subway slime.”

“Or, if you want to look on the bright side, maybe I could become a slime monster. Oh! Like the Swamp Thing, only the Subway Thing.” Jake paused, a faraway look in his eyes. “That’d be so dope.”

“Didn’t you ever think it was lame that the Swamp Thing was just a ‘thing,’” Amy said. “Like, they couldn’t come up with a better description?”

“I had never thought that before, but I love the way your mind works,” Jake said. Amy smiled, and he smiled back and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

They grew quiet, and Jake traced patterns across her shoulder and down her arm with his fingers, whorls and lines that made her shiver. Amy studied his face and marveled at the closeness they seemed to have developed, despite knowing not a lot about one another.

Amy had been in relationships, two or three serious ones, but they’d always just fizzled out, whatever small spark that got them started snuffed at the smallest huff of irritation. What Amy felt for Jake, after only knowing him for a few weeks, already seemed more vibrant, more durable.

“Did I ever tell you my dad was a cop?” Amy said, soft in the darkness.

Jake’s fingers paused on her skin, and he laid his palm flat on her shoulder instead. “No, you’ve never mentioned him.”

“He retired a few years ago. Victor Santiago.”

Jake’s eyes went wide, and his hand squeezed around her bicep. “Captain Victor Santiago? He’s your dad?”

Amy beamed and nodded. “You know him?”

“I know of him. He’s a legend, Amy,” Jake said. “Oh wait, wow, so Manny and Jesus are your brothers?”

“They’re cops too, yes,” Amy said. “And Tony.”

“Yeah, Tony. He’s kind of a dick.” Jake grimaced. “Sorry.”

“No, don’t be. He is a dick.”

Jake chuckled, and shook his head slowly. “Wow, I can’t believe you’re one of those Santiagos. It never even occurred to me.”

“I guess there’s a lot we don’t know about each other,” Amy said.

Jake caught her eye, and he moved his hand to the back of her head and pulled her toward him, his mouth close enough that she could feel his warm breath on her lips.

“Tell me everything,” he said.

Amy kissed him, hard enough to leave him breathless. “Later,” she said, and rolled on top of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I came back from the wilderness a day early, so here we go again. Chapters should publish every other day through the rest of the story. Thank you for reading!!


	9. Chapter 9

By mutual agreement, they declared a ban on “fancy” dates, which were defined as anything requiring a tie (for him) or high heels (for her) or financial gymnastics (for both of them). “I just don’t think we’re that kind of couple,” Amy said. “I just don’t think I have more than a dollar in my bank account,” Jake said. He could tell she thought he was joking and he was disinclined to correct her, for the time being.

So they got creative.

Amy treated him to a picnic at their fountain in Prospect Park, with Italian subs from the deli that he said was his favorite but never went to because his third favorite was closer to the precinct.

She took him to the T-rex exhibit at the natural history museum and made out with him in a dim corner of the gem room, where they got caught by a trio of middle-schoolers on a field trip who followed them around the rest of the afternoon.

She dragged him to the button store near Bryant Park, so he could experience the insanity of an entire shop with nothing but buttons. She’d loved visiting the store as a child with her mother, she said to him, and just as she had when she was young, she filled a silky pouch with mismatched buttons, picked out by both of them. She told him to keep it, and he stuffed it in his sock drawer, then changed his mind and set it on his bedside table instead. On nights he wasn’t with her, he’d hold it in his hand while he messed around on his phone or watched TV; the slip and slide of the buttons through the cloth, the gentle clacking sound they made, was soothing to him.

Jake took her to his go-to thrift store for undercover attire, and made Amy buy clothes for her alter ego, Eldora Senegal, and he picked out something for Pineapples, and they wore their costumes to a shady bar near his apartment and day drank and fell asleep on his couch at 8 p.m. on a Saturday.

He led her on a midnight crime tour of Brooklyn, and the next morning he bought her breakfast sandwiches from the sketchy looking bodega across the street from his apartment, and she said they were the best she’d ever had.

He took her to a kids’ soccer game at Prospect Park, where they set up cheap folding chairs and shared a bag of peanuts and drank PBRs out of paper bags, and each of them picked a team – the winner got to control the TV for two weeks. They got aggressively, perhaps inappropriately, competitive, and in the lulls between plays, Jake told her about the one season he’d played soccer as a kid, after his dad had left and he’d quit Little League. And she didn’t look at him with pity or indulgence, just smiled softly and brushed her thumb over his cheek, then screamed at the goalie on her team for diving the wrong way on a shot.

Amy figured out pretty quickly that Jake was kind of a slob and that it was true she’d have to get used to him showing up late for dates or canceling last-minute when he got stuck on a case. Eventually he had to tell her about the crushing debt, when she gently suggested he might need a new mattress. Her eyes grew wide with alarm, and for the first time he felt he’d disappointed her and it was awful. But then the dismay on her face shifted to something more like fond exasperation – the same look when she saw the stacks of unwashed cereal bowls in his kitchen sink or when he showed up for dinner with his hair still wet from a precinct shower – and honestly, that wasn’t so bad.

Jake learned Amy was a terrible cook and a nerd about word games and kind of a control freak, and that she was prone to absurd bouts of stubbornness when she was having a bad day. He could always tell when the Times or some other newspaper had beat her on a story because she would refuse any help or small kindness from him for the rest of the day, even if it was just opening a door for her or offering to pick up takeout before coming over.

And he found that she’d meant it when she said her career was her priority, which wasn’t to say he ever felt pushed aside, or like she took him for granted. But she worked as many nights as he did, and though she didn’t often go into the newsroom on weekends she almost always had her police scanner on low at her apartment and she obsessively checked Twitter for breaking news. 

“I have a new rule,” he said to her one lazy afternoon, as he came up behind her and pressed a kiss to the side of her neck. She was sitting at her kitchen table, working on the Sunday Times crossword puzzle; her phone sat next to the paper, buzzing at irregular intervals.

She angled her head to expose more of her neck and said, distracted, “What’s that?”

“Turn off Twitter notifications.”

She stiffened and looked over her shoulder at him. “Are you crazy?”

Jake sighed and sat next to her. “You’re making  _ me  _ a little crazy, Ames.”

She assessed him, eyes narrowed. “I’ll turn off 30 percent of the notifications.”

“Deal.” He leaned over and they kissed, a promise, and she turned back to her puzzle. “Also, no more scanner during sexy times.”

“Now you’ve gone too far, Peralta,” she said. But then she got up and turned off the scanner humming low in the corner, and straddled him in the chair. So yeah, he knew she had her priorities just right.

+++

A month after they started dating, they went to Gina’s dance recital in Queens, where they sat in the last row in the dark and whistled and cheered at her solo moves. When it was over they dropped off flowers for her with someone backstage but they didn’t stick around to say hi. Gina didn’t know they were dating, and Jake wasn’t entirely opposed to telling her, but he wasn’t sure how she would react, if she’d be angry or happy for him or just bored by the news.

A few days later, Jake was at Shaw’s with Rosa after an especially dumb day chasing scooter thieves – “We should just let them go, they’re doing the city a favor,” Jake said. “Yep,” Rosa said. They caught the guys two hours later – when someone called out “Jakey!”

He looked up and saw Amy at the same moment he spotted Charles, who was waving and pointing crazily at Jake. Amy’s jaw dropped and Jake was convinced for a second that he’d been roofied because it was the only way to explain these people all in one place at the same time. Then Rosa hit him.

“Dude, why is your girlfriend here?”

For a second Jake wasn’t sure if she was referring to Amy or Charles, but he knew Rosa would never make fun of someone’s masculinity and he felt bad about the thought even crossing his mind. “How did you know?”

“You’re super obvious,” Rosa said.

Then Charles and Amy had crossed the room and were standing at their table, and Charles was saying something about how he thought they’d be perfect together and he’d been trying to make this happen for so long and what did they think, was it a love connection? And Rosa said, “Shut up, man, they’re already dating.”

Charles looked wildly between them before his knees buckled and he fell into a chair that was conveniently just under him. Rosa pushed her beer across the table to him and he picked it up and finished it in one go.

“I’m Rosa,” Rosa said to Amy.

“Amy,” Amy said.

“I can’t believe this,” Charles said.

“Seriously, how do you know everyone I work with?” Amy sat down next to Jake and stole his beer.

It was like this, Jake told her: He’d met Charles five years ago, when Charles’ ex-wife had been holding his sperm hostage and Charles had filed a complaint, and the case had been too obviously insane for Jake to not take it. He’d known Charles’ job had something to do with editing but he hadn’t realized he worked at the Bulletin.

“How can you not know that?” Amy said.

“We kind of only ever talk about my job,” Jake said.

Charles nodded agreeably. “Jake’s work is way more interesting than mine.”

“Oh, and we talk about food. Super gross food.”

“Also true,” Charles said.

When Rosa got up to get more drinks and Charles got up to ask about the Shaw’s selection of balsam liqueurs (“None. I’m sure it’s none,” Jake told him, but Charles wanted to check anyway), Jake turned to Amy and kissed her, firm but fast, and said, “You need to get out of here.”

“What?”

“I’m sorry, I’m really sorry, but this is a cop bar and there are so many people watching us and-” He flapped his hand around weakly, because he didn’t want to have to say it.

“And you can’t be seen with me,” she finished for him.

It was too loud and too dark in the bar for him to read her, but his heart seized up at the words. “It’s not that I don’t want to-”

“Jake, it’s okay,” Amy said. She took his hand and squeezed it, then quickly let him go and stood. “I’ll grab Charles and get him to take me home. Call me later?”

She wasn’t even annoyed when he called that night, perched on the edge of his bed with his shoes still on, prepared to go to her if she was mad or upset or just sad.

“I get it,” she said.

He flopped back on his bed. “I don’t think I deserve you.”

She laughed and said he probably didn’t. “Also, you are definitely taking me and Rosa out to dinner soon and no, I don’t care about your debt, because I didn’t have time to win her over tonight,” Amy said.

Jake was too crazy about her to argue.

+++

The second weekend of November was cold and drizzly and gray, the perfect weather for staying inside all day with a week’s worth of notes to transcribe and catalogue and a man to send out for snacks as needed. But it was also the weekend that Amy was going to introduce Jake to her family, or some of them: David was having a barbecue at his Flatbush apartment.

They were swarmed within a few minutes of their arrival, and Jake was introduced to three of her seven brothers all at once, though he’d met some of them before, just not as their sister’s boyfriend.

And that was what she called him. “This is my boyfriend, Jake,” she said to Manny, the fourth brother in attendance, who was supervising the grill in the backyard (Amy was never not going to be annoyed that David had managed to find an affordable apartment in Brooklyn with an actual backyard). The “boyfriend” probably wasn’t necessary because she had her arm looped through Jake’s when she said it and she went up on her toes to kiss his cheek. But she liked saying it, and Jake beamed when he heard it.

“You’re with the Nine-Nine, right?” Manny reached out a hand to shake, then dug into the ice chest at his feet and handed over two Tecates. “Only the best for Amy and her boyfriend.”

Jake chuckled and popped open the beer, briefly tapping his can against Manny’s and Amy’s before taking a sip. “Isn’t it a little cold for a barbecue?”

“It’s fucking freezing, but David’s boyfriend asked for our mom’s pollo asado for his birthday, and Mom can’t resist David, so-”

“Wait, Mom’s here?” Amy said, her voice gone high-pitched as she looked all around the backyard.

“She’s in the kitchen. David didn’t tell you?” Manny sounded genuinely surprised, but Amy could tell by the look on his face that he found the situation hilarious.

“He did not,” Amy said, her grip tightening around Jake’s arm.

Jake was looking a little panicked but obviously trying not to show it. “Is your dad here too?”

Manny busted up laughing and slapped him on the shoulder. “No, man, you’re safe for tonight.” He nodded his head toward the house. “Go inside and talk to her, sis. I’ll keep Peralta occupied.”

Amy glanced at Jake and he gave her a small nod and a kiss on the forehead. She squeezed his arm and then let go, squared her shoulders, and walked toward the backdoor.

She hadn’t yet told her mom she was dating anyone, let alone a cop. Family politics such as they were, she was afraid that bringing an NYPD detective home was going to be instantly divisive, solidifying her place on Team Cop and firmly pitted against Team Not-Cops, which was led by Camila Santiago – loving mother of eight, champion of the people, and vice president of her neighborhood chapter of Black Lives Matter.

Bringing Jake to David’s barbecue had been a calculated move on Amy’s part. She’d counted on a gentle Santiago initiation, an opportunity for him to gain a few allies before meeting the rest of the family. Leave it to David to foil her plans, again.

She found him in the kitchen, chopping cilantro and singing along with a showtune she vaguely recognized. Amy hissed in his ear, “You did this on purpose.”

“Amita! You made it!”

Amy punched him in the arm. “Do not call me that, traitor.”

“Amy! My only daughter, come here.” Her mom crossed the kitchen and swept Amy in a hug, kissing both of her cheeks. She smelled faintly of garlic and chilis, and the floral-scented face powder she’d been using as long as Amy could remember.

“Mom, I’m sorry I haven’t called-”

“You’re very busy, I understand.” She held Amy at arm’s length, looking her up and down, and then peered over her shoulder toward the backyard. “David told me your boyfriend was coming.”

Amy could practically feel David smirking at them. “He’s in the backyard.” She took a deep breath and let it out all at once. “Mom, Jake’s a detective. In the NYPD.”

“So David said.”

“It wasn’t like I planned to date a cop, it just happened,” Amy said, in a rush. “I don’t want you to think I’m choosing sides. And I don’t want you to hate him. He’s really great, Mom. If you just give him a chance-”

But her mom was laughing. “Mija, I married a cop. And I happen to love your father very much.”

Amy stared, dumbstruck, because somehow that very important detail hadn’t occurred to her.

“Come,” her mother said, tucking her arm through Amy’s and steering them toward the backyard, “let’s go meet Jake.”

Amy smiled, and she wasn’t even annoyed – much – at the smug look on David’s face when she caught his eye. At the top of the stairs down to the yard, Amy’s mom stopped her and just looked her over again, long enough that Amy felt a blush rise to her cheeks.

“Mom?”

“I’m proud of you,” her mother said. “I know I don’t say it enough.”

Amy felt her eyes fill and didn’t trust herself to speak. Her mom stroked her hair, tugging a little at the ends, and said, “You need a haircut.” Amy laughed, and she pulled her mom forward to introduce her to her boyfriend.

  
  



	10. Chapter 10

Jake dug his hands deeper into his jacket pockets and stomped his feet, trying to keep himself from shivering and looking pathetic in the freezing cold. Rosa, of course, was just leaning casually against the brick side of the building.

“You need better CIs,” Rosa said.

“I know.” Jake pulled out his phone to check the time again. “Let’s give him five more minutes.”

“You sure you can survive that much longer?” Rosa raised her eyebrows and looked him up and down.

“Not really,” Jake said with a sigh.

They’d already been waiting for his CI for more than half an hour, at the far end of a dingy alley that reeked of urine and something sweet-rotten. While it wasn’t unusual for informants to run late, Leo James was pretty reliable – except this would be the third time in a row that he’d asked to meet Jake and then skipped out. Jake wasn’t sure what to make of that, but it was making him edgy, and slightly more eager than usual to hear what Leo had to say.

Not necessarily so eager that he was willing to risk frostbite, though. Jake opened his mouth, ready to call it, when Rosa said, “So what’s up with you and Amy?”

“I- what?” Rosa never initiated conversations about relationships. Even when she accidentally started one she shut it down when things got uncomfortable, which was immediately. She’d once commented on a concert T-shirt he wore to work on a Saturday and when he started to tell her he’d stolen it from an ex-girlfriend she had yanked his arm behind his back and told him to keep that shit to himself. They’d been working together for two weeks.

Warning him about trusting a reporter back when Amy was just that – some reporter – was one thing. But now that they were dating, he’d assumed Amy was off limits. And Rosa did look pained now, her face scrunched up like she’d just smelled something Charles had baked for them.

“I’m worried about you,” Rosa said with a wince, the words spilling out all at once.

“Rosa-”

“Look, you know how much it horrifies me to talk about this-”

“A lot,” Jake said.

“So much,” Rosa said. “But I’m going in anyway.”

She took a deep breath and released it slowly. “As far as I can tell, Amy seems like a not terrible person. Like, she has ethics and shit, and she’s obviously really into you. But you’ve got to know, she’s not like us. Even the good journalists, they have different goals. We’re trying to protect people, they’re trying to sell newspapers.”

“Digital subscriptions,” Jake said.

“What?”

“Newspapers don’t really make much off print newspaper sales anymore, it’s all about the online- you know what, never mind.” Jake ran a hand through his hair. “First, you’re wrong about me. My singular goal is to jump out of a helicopter with a knife between my teeth and a super cool semi-auto pistol strapped to my thigh, with one objective at hand: Get all the hostages out, alive.”

“Out of where, exactly?”

“Doesn’t matter.” Jake stared off into the distance for a moment, lost in thought. He started when Rosa coughed pointedly. “Anyway, I guess you’re right that Amy and I don’t share the same goals. Although, I’ve never asked so maybe we do? Should I ask her how she feels about jumping from helicopters?”

“Jake-”

“I know, Rosa.” He sighed, hunching up his shoulders when a gust of cold air swept down the alley. “I get it, but you’re wrong about Amy. Yes, she wants to sell papers, but that’s just so they can make money and keep doing the work they do. She wants to make the world a better place, just like we do. We want the same things.”

Jake didn’t like the hint of defensiveness that had crept into his voice. And he did understand why Rosa was concerned. But at the same time, she’d only met Amy twice – the one time at Shaw’s, when they’d barely interacted, and two weeks later at a dinner arranged by Charles, which had ended early when everyone got violently ill on the horsetail soup. All of her concerns were based on her preconceptions of journalists in general and had nothing to do with Amy herself.

Jake didn’t need Rosa’s approval. But it didn’t sit well with him that his partner – whom he trusted more than anyone, and whom he knew with absolute certainty would always have his back, despite whatever issues she had about emotional intimacy and maintaining boundaries – didn’t like his girlfriend.

“You really trust her?” Rosa said, narrowing her eyes at him – it felt like a challenge, like she was daring him to look away. “Are you sure this isn’t just about the fact that she’s hot and for some reason you’re into her weird pantsuit aesthetic and obvious nerd brain?” 

“Yeah,” Jake said, without thought. Then again, “Yeah, I trust her.”

Rosa broke the eye contact and exhaled sharply, her breath puffing cloud-like in the cold. “Okay.”

She had her hands in her pockets now, and she shivered, just the slightest tremor across her shoulders. Jake sighed and kicked at a crumpled ball of newspaper at his feet. He glanced once more around the alley.

“Let’s get out of here,” he said.

Rosa pushed off the wall and they headed back to the precinct in silence.

+++

Amy twisted her hair into a sloppy bun as she padded into her kitchen, hoping Jake hadn’t discovered the pint of Cherry Garcia she’d hidden in the back of her freezer, behind the box of orange popsicles and the stack of frozen pizzas. She smiled to herself when she spotted the container, the plastic seal unbroken. Amy grabbed the ice cream, picked up a spoon, and headed back to her couch.

It had been a while – almost exactly two months, actually – since Amy had been alone with just ice cream and her pajamas on a Saturday night. A part of her had been looking forward to an evening of solo indulgence when Jake had first mentioned that he had plans. But now that the night was here, she was just feeling bummed out.

Jake was at a dinner hosted by a New York City Council member, honoring Commissioner Wuntch. The dinner – which was actually more of a gala, as far as Amy could tell from her petty internet sleuthing – was being held at the New York Public Library. Jake and Rosa had been ordered to attend by Pembroke, as representatives of the Nine-Nine. Amy had been very distinctly not invited.

At first, she’d been okay with that – a little disappointed because it would have been fun to dress up fancy with Jake, to see him in his full uniform, his dress blues, to dance with him and exchange knowing glances behind glasses of Champagne, but okay. She really did understand his hesitancy – she’d accepted it at Shaw’s, and she accepted it now. It wasn’t like she was so eager to be fodder for the neighborhood gossip blogs anyway – she had a career and a reputation to protect too.

But there was not going public, and there was hiding. And what Jake was doing was starting to feel a lot more like the latter. They still hadn’t told Gina they were dating. Amy hadn’t met his mom, or any friends other than Rosa and Charles, who barely even counted since she’d already known him. Jake wasn’t ashamed of her, she was sure of that. But after two months of dating, his reservations were wearing thin.

She suspected that for him, keeping their relationship private – and keeping it contained – wasn’t just about protecting his career, but his heart. She didn’t think he did it on purpose, necessarily, but she knew he had trust issues. It probably went back as far as his father leaving when he was young – a fact he joked about sometimes, though it obviously still hurt – and it hadn’t gotten better in his years as a cop, especially working under someone like the Vulture.

He’d told her recently, in the darkness of his studio late at night, that he could count the number of people he trusted on one hand, and not even use all his fingers. She hadn’t asked him then if she’d made the cut, and he hadn’t said, but the way he’d cupped her face and kissed her, gentle and thorough, had told her everything she needed to know.

Still, as the past week had gone by, she couldn’t help thinking that he knew how much she loved the public library and how thrilled she’d be to attend a private event there. Then they’d spent Thanksgiving apart because he was on duty and he hadn’t even managed to swing by for pie, and her whole family had seemed quietly judgmental. And the day after that, he’d mentioned that Rosa was bringing her new girlfriend to the dinner-slash-gala – and that was what finally, officially ticked Amy off.

Rosa, who barely tolerated people knowing her phone number, was taking a date – a female date, less than a week after coming out as bisexual – to the dinner. And Jake still wouldn’t be seen in public with Amy, his girlfriend of two months.

She’d spent the night before the dinner at Jake’s and woken up feeling bruised and sensitive. She’d seriously considered talking to him about it, even crafting a monologue in her head while she showered, but eventually decided it would keep for a day. Jake already wasn’t thrilled to be going to the dinner, and she didn’t need to make him feel like an asshole on top of it. She would take the night to sit with her feelings and approach him in the morning with a reasoned, carefully practiced speech about treating each other with respect.

For now, though, she was going to eat an entire pint of ice cream on her own and watch the Hallmark Channel until she couldn’t see straight. Amy dropped on her couch and pulled a blanket over her lap. She turned on the television, picked her channel, snapped the plastic seal on her pint and dug in.

“Fucking men,” she muttered.

+++

From the spot he’d staked out at the back of the hall, Jake couldn’t help marveling at the spectacle of it all. Orange and yellow lights bounced off the columns and arches far overhead, and flickering candles clustered on small tables around the perimeter gave the hall a warm, intimate vibe, despite the expanse of the space. About half the crowd were in uniform, and the rest were wearing gowns or tuxes, everyone looking polished and glowing in the soft light. Even the Champagne was sparkling like glitter.

The party was, Jake had to admit, super romantic. And he was a jerk.

He set down his empty glass on a table and tugged at his necktie. He badly wanted to check his phone again but he’d only looked at it maybe two minutes ago, and he knew he’d be annoyed when he saw the time. He’d decided that he needed to stay at least until the speeches were done – or until Wuntch had spoken, anyway – and then he was booking it. He’d already identified the best exit to make a covert escape.

“Knock it off,” Rosa hissed beside him, swatting his hand away from his neck. “Stop acting like a frat bro at prom.”

“Frat bros don’t go to prom, Rosa,” Jake spit back.

“Not the point, Jake.”

Rosa’s date nudged her way between them, handing them each a fresh glass of Champagne. “You two are adorable.”

Rosa grunted and Jake opted to down his drink in one go. He wiped his hand over his mouth and set that glass aside too. He could feel Rosa’s disgruntled stare on the side of his face and he ignored it, turning instead to her date.

“So, Melanie, how’d you two meet?”

“Oh I am so not falling for that one,” Melanie said, throwing a smirk toward Rosa. “She warned me you’d try to get all my secrets.”

“Oh for- since when is your origin story a secret? Unless you met at a sex club.” Jake thought that over. “Wait, did you meet at a sex club? Rosa, did you meet Melanie at a sex club? Melanie, which sex club was it? Never mind, doesn’t matter, I don’t know any of them.”

“It was not a sex club, dumbass,” Rosa said.

“We met at BronyCon.” Melanie said, casting a sideways glance at Rosa as though seeking permission. Rosa just shrugged.

“What’s BronyCon-” Jake paused. The name was familiar. “My Little Pony convention? Wasn’t there a riot at it last year?”

Rosa nodded sternly. “It’s a rough scene.”

Jake stared at Rosa and Melanie, who were both stonily impassive as they looked out over the hall.

“I don’t believe you.”

“Whatever, man,” Rosa said.

A crackle from the speakers that had been mounted discretely around the room made them all startle, and Jake looked up toward the raised stage, where someone in a suit was tapping on a microphone. The man introduced himself as an aide to the councilmember hosting the event and said the presentation was running a little late and they’d begin in another 45 minutes.

Behind Jake, someone squealed, and he turned to see Scully darting toward one of the buffet tables.

“More time for chicken wings, Jakey,” he said, delighted, and disappeared into the crowd.

Jake groaned and yanked at his tie again. He’d been feeling guilty all week about not inviting Amy to this event – it was at the New York Public Library, only her favorite building in the city – but he’d managed to push it aside, mostly, until he got here and saw how beautiful the space was, and saw how happy Rosa looked with her date. (Rosa had smiled, exactly once, when she introduced Jake to Melanie. It meant she was pretty much in love.)

Rosa leaned into him now, only instead of knocking his hand away again she said, under her breath, “Just go. I’ll cover for you.”

Jake raised an eyebrow, but he also glanced impulsively toward the exit he’d marked earlier.

“I saw Pembroke making out with a city hall intern half an hour ago,” Rosa said. “He does not give a shit.”

“How do you know she was an intern-”

“How does that matter? Seriously, go. Now. Before I realize that I’m helping you.”

“Thank you.” Jake briefly squeezed her shoulder, waved at Melanie, and then he slipped off to the side and out the back exit.

The cold air stung his face as he stepped outside and jogged down the front stairs toward the subway station across the street. He changed his mind when he got to the curb and pulled out his phone to call up a car instead – it might take him an hour or longer to get to Brooklyn by train and he didn’t think he could handle the wait. He even splurged on the UberX.

The ride was still torture. He thought about texting Amy that he was on his way, or even calling. But if she’d decided to go out with friends, he didn’t want her to feel like she had to leave them to hang out with him now that he’d come to his senses.

One of Amy’s neighbors was opening the front door to the building just as Jake’s ride pulled up. Jake called out to him to hold the door, and the guy saw his uniform and let him in, and Jake jogged the three flights of stairs up to her apartment. He paused at her door to catch his breath, though he couldn’t seem to make his heart slow down. He took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and tapped on her door.

He heard her footsteps, and a pause as she (hopefully) looked through the peephole, and then the deadbolt clicked and the door swung open. Amy was wearing baggy pink sweatpants, thick fluffy socks, a T-shirt printed with “word nerd” in crossword squares, and one of his hoodies. Her hair was frizzy, strands falling out of a bun. She was frowning, slightly, but mostly she looked surprised and confused.

She was breathtaking. Jake stepped toward her and kissed her, sliding a hand around her waist to her lower back to pull her closer. She went tense for a moment, then relaxed into him, and her lips parted to deepen the kiss. She tasted sweet, like chocolate and cherries.

Jake broke the kiss and breathed her in. “You bought ice cream?”

“I hid it.” She kissed the corners of his mouth, then gave him a pointed look. “I was saving it for a special occasion.”

Her smile was soft and hesitant, and he could read the hurt in her eyes.

“I’m so sorry,” he said.

Amy didn’t say anything, just took his hand and led him the rest of the way into the apartment, shutting and locking the door behind them. In the living room he turned to face her and opened his mouth to apologize again. But Amy held a finger to his lips.

“I know we have stuff to talk about, but first-” She looked him slowly up and down, her gaze so intense that Jake felt the blood rush to his face, and a few other spots. Amy nodded and hummed to herself. “Yeah, this is working for me.”

Jake smiled and couldn’t resist pulling her into him again, wrapping his arms around her and nuzzling at her neck. He didn’t typically like wearing the uniform, but there was something about this contrast – the stiff fabric of his coat, the badge on his chest, even his shiny shoes, when everything about her in this moment was soft and warm. Holding her close felt like he was keeping her safe, and cherished.

He felt her arms go around his neck, felt her shirt ride up. He could pick her up, he could carry her to the couch, or the bed. He could let her take this uniform off, one piece at a time. It could take all night.

Jake sighed and backed off, kissing her once on the temple. Amy let her hands fall to her sides.

“I was at the dinner, and there was classical music playing and candles everywhere, and everyone was dressed up, and I just-” Jake looked her in the eye, made sure she was listening. “I realized, the second I walked in, that I didn’t want to be there. Not alone. Not without you.”

“Jake-”

“Ames, I don’t even know why I’ve been hiding. You are amazing and I want people to know about us.”

“Your job,” Amy said. “That’s why. And I get it, I don’t want you to get in trouble.”

Jake shrugged dramatically. “Fuck that – the NYPD doesn’t get to decide who I’m with. If the Vulture doesn’t like it, you know, whatever. He was making out with an intern tonight. I’m done hiding something- someone, I care about. A lot.”

Amy searched him, eyes locked on his. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah. I am.”

“Okay then,” Amy said, and it was like a light came on inside her, her face and eyes suddenly aglow.

They closed the space between them together, arms sliding around one another. Their kisses started sweet, and then more heated, until they were both breathing hard, and he was pulling her hair out of its bun and she was scratching at the back of his neck.

When Amy broke off and started biting at his ear and undoing his tie, Jake had a moment of clarity and pushed away once again.

“This,” he said, slightly out of breath, “is awesome, but in the spirit of coming out, I was actually going to ask if you wanted to go back to the dinner with me.”

Amy gaped at him. “Tonight? That dinner?”

“Well, dinner’s over, but it’s actually still early so we could get back before the event’s over.” Jake pulled out his cell phone to check the time. “There’ll be dancing. And Champagne. In the New York Public Library.”

Amy laughed and threw up her hands. “Jake, look at me. What would I even wear?”

“One, you already look amazing,” Jake said. “And two, I’m sure you have a dress that would work.”

Amy grinned at him and shook her head. She wrapped her arms back around his shoulders, locked her fingers behind his neck, and kissed him firmly on the mouth.

“I like it fine right here,” she said. “We can come out some other time.”

He grinned back and swept her up into his arms, and Amy screamed at him to put her down all the way into the bedroom, until he dropped her on top of the comforter. It did not take her all night to strip him out of his uniform.

+++

Amy woke up alone, but she spotted the note on his pillow right away. She smiled to herself as she brought the paper up close to her face so she could read his messy print without her glasses.

“Went for three Bs: Breakfast sandwiches. Bear claws. Bacon. PS: I turned off your alarms. ALL OF THEM.”

Amy flipped over and reached for the two battery-powered alarm clocks on her bedside table. They were both dead, their batteries pulled and set beside them. She sat up and squinted at the three other alarm clocks placed strategically around the room but her vision was too bad to tell if they were dead too. She was going to assume yes. Amy laughed and shook her head. Somehow he’d managed to not only wake up before her and sneak out for breakfast, but trick her into sleeping in.

She picked up her cell phone – and yes, he’d somehow turned off those alarms too – and blinked herself fully awake when she saw the time. It was almost 11.

Amy stretched and rubbed at her eyes, feeling deliriously indulgent. She got up and crossed toward the bathroom, pausing at the reading chair beside her bookcase. Jake’s uniform coat was slung over the back, along with his tie. She ran a finger over his badge and the commendations pinned above it. She’d have to ask him sometime to explain them all. The coat itself was heavy and stiff, and though she was sure it wasn’t the most comfortable apparel, she’d loved seeing him in it. Next time, she realized, she might be dressed up too, holding his hand or looping her arm through his as he escorted her into some other dinner party.

She wasn’t usually a sucker for romantic fantasies, but that was a good one.

Amy brushed her teeth and put in her contacts, and she ran a comb through her hair before giving up and pulling it back into a ponytail. After a moment of consideration, she put on the same sweatpants as the day before and slid Jake’s hoodie back on. They didn’t have any particular plans for the day so she could change later if they decided to go out.

Jake hadn’t mentioned coffee in his note, so even though she was pretty sure he’d pick that up too she set some hot water to boil for her French press. While she waited she turned back to her phone, pulling up the app for the Bulletin.

She gasped and slapped a hand to her mouth when she saw the lead headline: “99 th Precinct to the Birds? ‘It’s the Vulture’s nest,’ detectives say.”

It was written by Gina, her smug face staring up at Amy from the photo that always ran with her columns. Amy’s stomach clenched as she read the first paragraph – she felt sick by the time she’d reached the end. When her teapot began to whistle she startled so badly she almost dropped her phone, pressing it into her chest to keep hold of it. She turned off the stove, her hands shaking. Then she leaned back against the kitchen counter and read the column again.

Gina had it all: not just the nickname Jake and Rosa used, but how Pembroke made a habit of stepping on their cases or of swooping in when they were close to a solve, and handing the victories to his friends in major crimes. Gina wrote that the detectives blamed Pembroke for blocking them from pursuing the deputy commissioner’s son on graffiti charges. She wrote that his precinct despised him and wanted nothing more than to force him out.

Jake wasn’t named in the story – Gina said her source was a precinct official with “knowledge of the situation” who asked to remain anonymous – but Amy knew he’d be Pembroke’s prime suspect. Amy didn’t know if there were other detectives besides Jake and Rosa who disliked Pembroke and called him “the Vulture,” but Jake was the only one who’d been blamed for leaking to a reporter in the past. He was the only detective in the precinct who’d been quoted, by name, in a Bulletin story recently. He’d be the first person they looked to now.

And this column wasn’t just a tip – it was a full-blown expose, and it made Pembroke look like a fool and a monster. Jake was in real trouble.

Amy jumped when she heard the click of her front door unlocking. She knew she had to show him the column right away, but just the idea of it made her feel nauseated. A thought occurred to her, as she faced the door – that this was going to drive Jake right back into the relationship closet. She hated the surge of selfish disappointment that brought on.

The door swung open slowly and Jake stepped inside, his back still to her as he locked it again. He dropped her keys onto the hall table and turned toward her. He was wearing his uniform pants and his shirt was untucked, and he held a paper bag that looked heavy with greasy food. It would have smelled amazing if Amy hadn’t so thoroughly lost her appetite.

In his other hand, he had a copy of the Bulletin.

“Jake-”

He brushed by her toward the kitchen, setting the bag down with a thud. He stood facing away from her for a moment, then turned around and tossed the newspaper on the counter, and set his palms on either side of it. His face was a mask she’d never seen before. She recognized the anger and the fear, but there was something else, something he was barely holding onto.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, going to him and laying a hand over one of his. He jerked away.

“I trusted you.” His voice was thin, like he could be on the verge of tears.

Amy stepped back. “What are you talking about?”

He huffed a joyless laugh and gestured to the paper. “You told her. And you didn’t even warn me.”

“You think I did that?” The punch of realization was like a physical blow, and Amy folded her arms over her stomach, holding herself tight. “Jake, I would never do that. I told you-”

“Yeah, you said that stuff was just gossip, nothing worth writing about.” Jake jabbed a finger at the paper, right over the “Vulture” in the headline. “Maybe not for you, but for Gina, right? It’s great stuff for her gossip column.”

“No. No!” Amy wanted to stomp her feet, to grab his arm and shake him out of this. He knew she was better than that. He had to know. But she held herself still, tried to keep her voice steady. “I told you that what you said was between us and I meant it. I wouldn’t ever do that to you. I didn’t.”

But Jake was shaking his head, and Amy hated it but she understood, with sudden clarity, how bad this looked. Every line in that column could have come from her – every single word of it. All Jake had was her word that she wasn’t responsible. She could talk around it, she could explain over and over that she didn’t know how this had happened. But it wouldn’t matter if he didn’t trust her.

“What I don’t understand is why,” Jake said, the words catching, coming out rough. He cleared his throat. “I thought we were in this together, you know? I thought we wanted the same things.”

“We do.” Amy felt her eyes fill, and she brushed at a tear before it could roll down her cheek. “Jake, this wasn’t me.”

He looked up then, and his eyes were red and bright. “I don’t believe you,” he said.

Amy’s breath caught in her throat and for a moment it felt like she was suffocating, like her heart had stopped, like she couldn’t move at all. She said, “You don’t mean that,” the words barely a whisper. Jake opened his mouth, like he had an answer for her. Then he shook his head again and stepped past her.

He disappeared into her bedroom and returned a minute later, his uniform coat on. He paused at the edge of the living room, and Amy approached, stopping when she was an arm’s length away. She wanted to hold him, to kiss him. She wanted to beg him to believe her. But she shouldn’t have to.

She held out a hand to him. “Don’t go.”

Jake stared at her hand, and she willed him to take it. When he looked up at her, his eyes were wet, the irises black and depthless.

“I can’t do this,” he said. He left without saying goodbye.

Amy felt lightheaded, and her legs were unsteady as she backed up and collapsed on the edge of her couch. She buried her face in her hands. She could smell traces of him as she sobbed into the sleeves of his hoodie.


	11. Chapter 11

Jake walked home in a daze. As he unlocked his front door, he couldn’t recall quite how he’d gotten there, as though his brain had shut off for a while, and his feet had just carried him somewhere safe and familiar.

He shrugged off his coat and kicked off his shoes. He sat hard on the end of his bed and brought his hands to his face, digging his palms into his eyes to keep himself from crying. He could feel the tears in his throat and burning behind his eyes and he knew it was only a matter of time, but he was afraid that once he started he wouldn’t know how to stop.

His cell phone buzzed in his pocket, and Jake yanked it out, didn’t even bother to look before turning it off. It could be Amy, or it could be Rosa or Scully or fucking Pembroke telling him he was fired. He didn’t want to talk to any of them – or anyone at all. He tossed the phone onto his couch, then pulled out his keys and threw them hard across the room. They left a satisfying dent in the wall beneath his Die Hard poster.

“Fuck,” he said, under his breath, then yelled out, “Fuck!” He fell back on his bed and stared at the ceiling.

It seemed impossible that he’d been in perhaps the best mood of his life just that morning – less than an hour ago, maybe. He had just bought them breakfast, was thinking about where to stop for coffee on the way back, when he spotted the Bulletin in a newsrack near the bodega entrance. He couldn’t have said what caught his eye first, except that he’d gotten in the habit of glancing at the front page to look for Amy’s name. But the word “vulture” had made him stop in his tracks, right in the doorway. A woman had jostled him and muttered a “fuck you” as she pushed by. He’d barely noticed.

He’d picked up the paper and looked back at the man behind the counter, who knew Jake was a regular. The man had nodded and waved him out, and Jake had left without paying. He’d stopped just outside and read Gina’s column, his heart in his throat the whole way through.

The column had Amy all over it. Everything in there had come from him, had been shared with her over late-night dinners as they pored over documents, or later, while they lay in bed together or cuddled on her sofa or took walks around Fort Greene.

He’d stalked back to her apartment, angrier than he could recently recall. Righteous fury had carried him all the way to her building, but as he’d climbed the stairs to her door it burned down to embers, replaced by something far worse: hurt.

Then seeing her, wide-eyed with worry, still so beautiful to him, he’d deflated. And he’d wanted so badly to believe her when she said she’d done nothing wrong, when she said she would never hurt him like that. Maybe she hadn’t meant to, he reasoned. Maybe she’d said some things she shouldn’t have weeks ago, before they were even dating, and Gina had somehow come up with the rest herself. Or maybe Amy had been drunk and didn’t remember talking. Or maybe she had handed it all to Gina knowingly and regretted it only later, when faced with the consequences. Maybe Jake hadn’t known her at all.

He didn’t really think that, even now. But he didn’t know what to think or who to believe. He just had facts: Gina had written a column that had the potential to destroy his career, and the only person who could have given her that column was Amy. And he’d trusted her. She’d made the short list. She’d maybe even been at the top.

Alone in his apartment, Jake stared at the ceiling until the spidery cracks in the paint began to blur. He didn’t fight the tears when they finally came.

+++

Despite everything, Amy still managed to get to work 10 minutes early. She knew she was looking rough as she flashed the press pass that doubled as her Bulletin ID at Doug behind the security desk. But she was still caught off guard when he said, “Ms. Santiago, are you okay?” Which of course made her immediately tear up again, so after she brushed him off with a quivery “Mondays, am I right?” she spent a good 20 minutes in the ladies’ room getting herself under control.

That was how she actually ended up 10 minutes late, feeling off-balance and shaky and annoyed with herself and angry with everyone else. She took her seat across from Gina, and Gina looked up and did a double-take.

“Damn, girl.”

An image flashed in Amy’s mind, of her launching herself over their two desks and tackling Gina to the floor and strangling her, just a little.

Instead she stood up again and slapped her palms on her desk, hard enough to rattle her keyboard. “What the hell, Gina?”

“Whoa, I was just going to say you looked like you had the best and/or worst night of your life but if you’re going to get all murdery about it-”

“We need to talk.” Amy leaned over their desks and practically growled. “Now.”

She stalked to the break room and didn’t look to make sure Gina was following. (She didn’t honestly think she had intimidated Gina, but she knew Gina would come if only for the drama.)

The day before – and all last night, when she should have been sleeping – Amy’s thoughts had spiraled, twisting and throttling around her brain like a tornado she was powerless to control, much less stop. The confrontation with Jake had played on an endless loop, and sometimes she got to keep talking, keep trying to explain, but it always ended the same – with him walking out. She’d cried off and on all day, until she felt wilted from it, her body and mind spent. A dozen times she’d picked up her phone to call or text him, but she didn’t know what she could, or wanted to, say. She couldn’t apologize, she couldn’t ask forgiveness – she’d done nothing wrong. But what else was there?

In her saner moments, she’d imagined this: talking to Gina. Eventually she’d crafted a speech, in which she firmly but delicately inquired as to how Gina got that column. Technically it was on Amy’s beat after all – she had every right to ask. In a calm, work-appropriate way.

When they got into the breakroom Amy closed the door and yelled, “What the fuck were you thinking?”

“I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about, but I can tell you what I’m thinking right now, which is that you are cray-cray.”

Gina planted her hands on her hips and raised an eyebrow. Amy took a deep breath, let it out slowly. Then she did it three more times. Gina just watched.

“Fine,” Amy said coolly. “I’m talking about your column yesterday. About the 99th Precinct.”

“You’re mad about that?” Gina frowned. “I mean, I know it’s a cop thing and that’s your turf, but it was such a throwaway. I thought that gossipy crap was beneath you.”

“It is,” Amy said, “but you had to know this wasn’t going to look good for Jake. Did you even think about him? About his career?”

“Jake who?”

“Peralta.”

Amy’s slip-up hit her the moment Gina’s face lit up.

“Jake Peralta. Oh my god – Jake is your source?”

“Was my source,” Amy said. She bit her lip, unsure what else she could say – what she was allowed to say. Gina was Jake’s friend first, but he wasn’t here now. And Amy realized suddenly that she needed someone to know what had happened – and Gina was responsible, after all.

She took a deep breath. “We were dating. But I think we’re maybe broken up now.”

“Okay, wow. Did not see that coming.” Gina sat on the breakroom couch. She stared up at Amy, her brows turned down in bemusement. “We’re talking about the same Jake Peralta, right? Plaid shirts, basically lives off gummy worms and pizza pockets, has maybe only ever seen one movie in his life?”

“Well, technically it’s a franchise, so, like, five movies-” Amy closed her eyes and stopped herself. Then she nodded morosely, and dropped onto the couch beside Gina.

Gina tucked one leg under herself and turned to face her. “How did you even meet?”

“You just said it yourself,” Amy said, rolling her eyes. “He was my source. He works in the Nine-Nine?”

“Oh right – is it weird that I can never remember he’s a cop?”

“It’s very weird,” Amy said. She slumped into the couch, tipping her head back on the cushions and staring up at the ceiling tiles. “Do you have any idea what you did with that column?”

“Yeah, I’m still not following why this is an issue,” Gina said.

“The Vulture is Jake’s boss.”

“And,” Gina said, gesturing for her to go on.

Amy sighed. “And Jake talks to me about him all the time. And the Vulture’s already suspicious about Jake being my source.”

“So, you’re afraid this Vulture dude is going to think that Jake was my source for the column,” Gina said.

Amy hummed a yes, and then added, “And Jake thinks I was your source.”

“He- what?” Gina sat up and gaped at Amy. “He actually said that?”

“He did,” Amy said, the grief hitting her all over again. She blinked hard against the familiar pinpricks in the corners of her eyes.

“God, he’s such an idiot,” Gina said. “Look, I can’t tell you who my source is, because- okay, actually because I don’t know his name.”

“Gina!” Amy stared at her, appalled. It was one thing to use anonymous sources for a story, but reporters at least had to know who they were talking to, even if they never revealed the name publicly. It was too easy to be lied to and misled otherwise.

“It was just gossip,” Gina said, throwing her hands up. “I ran it by a couple of my own sources and they said it was legit, so I went with it.”

“And now Jake thinks I blew his cover all for some dumb gossip column and we’re basically broken up.” Amy groaned and slid onto her side, curling up in a corner of the couch.

There was a brief silence and then Gina said, “Not that I would do it, because I don’t think I care that much – but do you want me to call Jake and explain it wasn’t you?”

Amy thought over the offer for a moment before shaking her head. “It doesn’t matter. He either trusts me or he doesn’t. And I guess he doesn’t.”

She felt Gina patting her ankle. It was hesitant and awkward and Amy was deeply moved, and she felt the tears run fresh down her cheeks. They sat quietly for a few minutes, Amy crying into the disgusting couch while Gina almost certainly played on her phone.

Amy was just about ready to get up, wipe her face, and make another attempt at facing the world when Gina said, “Are you sure Jake’s a cop in the Nine-Nine? I feel like I would remember that.”

Amy rolled onto her back and stared at Gina in wonder. “Jake has the weirdest friends.”

+++

Jake realized he was clutching at the arms of his chair hard enough to turn his knuckles white, and he let go and rubbed his sweaty palms on his pants legs. On the wall across from him was a framed poster of Officer Pepper O’Pigeon, hanging behind the commissioner’s secretary’s desk. For such a goofy mascot it was oddly threatening – Jake thought it had something to do with the shirt sleeves being cut off to accommodate the bird’s arms, or wings. Like it was too buff to be constrained by a normal police uniform. But the long pink legs were also upsetting.

He tore his gaze away and straightened his tie, again, and avoided looking at the man sitting in the chair next to his. Jake couldn’t ignore the staccato of snips, though, as the Vulture trimmed his nails while they waited. The man was truly the most disgusting person Jake knew.

“A tie’s not gonna save your ass, Peralta,” Pembroke said with a cheerful snicker.

Jake just barely stopped himself from telling Pembroke to go fuck himself.

Jake had honestly been surprised when he’d gotten the call that morning to come to the commissioner’s office for a meeting – he’d expected Pembroke to handle the punishment himself, or at worst take it a step or two up the chain of command. That Jake was being hauled down to One Police Plaza meant that the brass were taking Gina’s column more seriously than he’d expected, and also that he could be in seriously deep trouble. 

Sure, in his lowest moments the day and night before he had imagined losing his job and ending up homeless and alone and living off of dog food and cheese puffs for the rest of his life, but he hadn’t really believed that would happen. Now his gut churned with real fear. They could take away his detective badge. He could lose everything.

The secretary’s phone rang and Jake’s anxiety spiked. The secretary picked up the call, hung up without saying a word, and announced, “The commissioner’s ready for you.”

Pembroke brushed off his pants and stood, gesturing for Jake to go before him. When Jake got up and moved toward the office, Pembroke nudged him aside and jumped in front, smirking over his shoulder. The guy was seriously the worst.

Jake hadn’t been in the commissioner’s office since Wuntch won the job a couple of years before. It looked basically the same as the previous commissioner’s office had, with framed commendations hanging on the walls and a few photos of Wuntch with random politicians and celebrities lined up on the bookcase adjacent to the desk. He paused on a shot of Wuntch with an irritated-looking Michelle Obama; both of their hair was slightly mussed up in the photo.

“Have a seat,” Wuntch said. She was already behind her desk, hands folded on top of a copy of the Bulletin.

Jake put a hand to his chest to keep his badge in place as he sat, feeling suddenly self-conscious in his cargo pants and plaid shirt and leather jacket. Even with the tie he felt sloppy and unprofessional next to two high-ranking cops in full uniform. He wished for a moment that he’d at least picked out a clean shirt for his funeral, but then, he’d had a lot on his mind when he’d gotten dressed that morning.

“Peralta should be fired,” Pembroke said without preamble. Jake felt his heart clench.

“Now, let’s not be hasty,” Wuntch said. She looked between them, narrowing her eyes. “Captain Pembroke – or should I call you Captain Vulture?”

Pembroke sneered at Jake.

“Captain,” Wuntch went on, “you asked for this meeting. It’s my understanding that you believe Detective Peralta is responsible for this rather enlightening article in the Bulletin?”

She pushed the newspaper across her desk, and Pembroke jabbed a finger at the top of the page. Jake was reminded uncomfortably of his own reaction the day before.

“He was Santiago’s source and now he’s obviously started leaking to Linetti,” Pembroke said. “If that’s not cause for dismissal-”

Wuntch held up a hand. “Do you know he was their source?”

“Yeah, I know,” Pembroke said. “Santiago wrote several stories that obviously came from Peralta.”

“But do you have proof?” Wuntch said.

Pembroke bristled. “He was the only person who could have talked to her.”

“That’s circumstantial, Captain. Do you have proof?”

Pembroke opened his mouth, closed it, and finally scowled at the commissioner.

“I’ll take that as a no,” Wuntch said. She turned to Jake. “Did you leak the material in this column to the Bulletin?”

Jake shook his head. “No, ma’am.”

“And did you leak any other stories to Ms. Santiago?”

Jake swallowed, and shook his head again. “I don’t even know her.”

“Very well.”

“You’ve got to be friggin’ kidding me,” Pembroke said. “He’s lying.”

“You have no proof that Detective Peralta had anything to do with this,” Wuntch said, tapping the newspaper. “Peralta, thank you for your time. Dismissed.”

Jake sat dazed for a second, then stood and nodded sharply at her. “Thank you, commissioner.”

Pembroke groaned and rose with him, but as they turned to walk out, Wuntch said, “Captain Pembroke, you’ll stay. We need to talk about this Vulture thing…”

If Jake hadn’t been so miserable, he would have been struggling to keep himself from grinning and high-fiving the commissioner’s secretary as he walked out, letting the door swing shut behind him.

As it was, he simply pulled out his cell phone and texted Rosa: “Shaw’s in 30. We’re day drinking. No talking.”

Rosa texted back a thumbs up immediately.

+++

They couldn’t actually drink while they were on duty, so Jake bought them Shirley Temples. They grabbed a table at the back of the bar and he told Rosa what had gone down with the commissioner, and she tapped her glass against his.

“That’s great, man.” She eyed him as he stared into the pink depths of his drink. “Or, it’s not great.”

“Amy and I broke up. I think.”

Rosa blew out a breath, and Jake prepared for the told-you-so. He figured he deserved it. He was even sort of looking forward to it, in a masochistic but weirdly reassuring way. He’d been cycling through so many emotions over the past 24 hours, shifting from anger to grief to fear to guilt, to feelings he couldn’t even identify but made his skin crawl and his stomach hurt.

In the center of them all was Amy, and the question he somehow couldn’t stop asking himself: Did he trust her? Every time he tried to answer it head on, it was like the spin cycle picked up speed, everything a blur until his mind sort of shut down and moved on.

Rosa, though – she knew the answer. She’d warned him.

Rosa was twirling her plastic straw around her drink, creating a small cyclone of her own. “You broke up with her because you think she leaked the Vulture stuff to Gina Linetti.”

Jake nodded, then shrugged. “I guess I left before we broke up, so we’re technically still together? I’m not sure.”

Rosa took a sip of her drink through the straw and scowled. She pushed the glass away, and she looked Jake straight in the eye. Jake braced himself.

“Are you sure she did it? Because it doesn’t really sound like something Amy would do.”

Jake’s stomach dropped to his feet, and he stared at her in disbelief. “You said it was a mistake to trust her. You said she only wanted to sell newspapers and that I’d regret dating her.”

“I did not say that last thing,” Rosa said, pointing a finger at him.

“But the trust part! You said that, like, so many times.”

Rosa leaned back in her chair and folded her arms across her chest. “Yes, but I meant over something important. Like, the mayor is shot and you know who the prime suspect is and you tell Amy after you guys have really great sex, and she’s like, do I betray Jake and write about the guy who tried to kill the mayor? And she decides she has to because she believes people have a right to know or some bullshit. I didn’t mean, like, some dumb gossip column about the fucking Vulture.”

Jake threw his arms up and tried very hard not to yell. “Rosa! You were never that specific!”

“I didn’t think I had to be.” Rosa cocked her head to the side, studying him. “My thoughts on Amy’s trustworthiness had nothing to do with you assuming she betrayed you. That’s not on me, Jake.”

Jake groaned and folded himself over the table, knocking his forehead against the hard surface. He picked his head up and hit it again, with a little more force. The table top was sticky. He felt Rosa awkwardly pat his shoulder a couple of times and then they said nothing for a while.

“I’m just saying, maybe you should call her,” Rosa said.

Jake moaned into the table. “I liked you better when we went for drinks and didn’t talk.”

“Same.” Rosa rapped him on the back of the head with her knuckles. “Now sit up and drink your Shirley Temple in silence like a woman.”

+++

Pembroke was still gone when they got back to the precinct an hour later. Jake sat at his desk and tugged off his tie, preparing to embrace an afternoon of apathy-slash-despondency, perhaps first by putting his head down and just ignoring the world for a while.

He frowned when three post-it notes stuck to his computer monitor caught his attention. They were all phone messages taken by the admin assistant (because Jake had never set up his office voicemail, because voicemail was annoying and people shouldn’t be encouraged to use it).

The first message was from his CI.

“Fuck,” Jake said under his breath, as he tore off the note. He’d completely forgotten that Leo had arranged for a meet that morning. Jake pulled out his cell phone and yes – there was a text too, from over an hour ago.

The second post-it note was another message from his CI. The third was from Kings County Hospital. Jake plucked off that note and stared at the neatly printed letters for a beat, then picked up his desk phone and called.

He was on hold for a while, which gave him plenty of time to beat himself up for flaking on Leo. He’d never skipped out on a CI, not once since becoming a detective and building up a loose network of informants. What if Leo had been calling for help, and was now in the morgue?

And as he kept waiting, Jake wondered if maybe the call from the hospital wasn’t about his CI at all. What if it was Amy? She could have been hit by a bus or fallen through a rusted manhole cover or been mauled by a pack of aggressive pigeons or rats. Would anyone even think to call him? What if he never saw her again?

“Hello, Detective Peralta?”

“Yes!” Jake’s voice was about three pitches higher than usual. He closed his eyes briefly and coughed. “Yes, speaking.”

“Okay, um- I’m Officer Robbins.” There was a flapping sound, of papers being flipped around. “Right, here we go. We picked up a Leo James about an hour ago.”

Jake breathed out slowly, hating himself a little for the weight that lifted off his shoulders. “Is he okay?”

“He’s going to be. He got beat up pretty bad, and he was overdosing when we found him.”

Jake frowned. Leo was a fringe associate with one of the rougher drug rings in Brooklyn, but he wasn’t really a user himself. Or he hadn’t been. “But you got him in time?”

“Yeah, gave him two hits of Narcan and he came around,” Robbins said. “We followed him over to the hospital, thought we’d see if we could get anything out of him about the beating. But he said he’d only talk to you.”

“Right, okay. Thanks.” Jake sank back in his chair and ran a hand over his face, hit by a new wave of fatigue.

“It’s actually pretty lucky we were able to revive him,” Robbins was going on. “I’ve heard Narcan doesn’t always work well with that new drug, what’s it called-?”

“Jazzy Pants?” Jake sat up straight, on instinct reaching for a notepad and a pen.

“Yeah, dumbass name for a fucked-up drug.”

“Are you sure it was Jazzy Pants?” Jake said.

“That’s what your guy told us when we got him back.”

Jake thanked Robbins again and hung up, frowning to himself. That was two of his CIs overdosing on the new drug in a couple of months. It could be entirely coincidental – overdoses were hardly uncommon among informants – but something felt off, and he’d learned to not ignore certain instincts.

He picked up the phone again to call the Seven-Eight. He didn’t actually have many good contacts over there, so when the admin picked up he asked for the first person who came to mind.

“Peralta,” said Manny Santiago. The cheer in his voice was not exactly unexpected, but it still caught Jake off guard.

“Hey, Manny, look-”

“We missed you at Thanksgiving, man.” Manny rolled right over him. “Dad had a binder on you, you know. He was not impressed with your credit score but your closure rates are fantastic. His words, not mine.”

“I- that’s weird but good?” Jake shook his head, tried to focus on why he had called and not the highs and lows of having pleased and disappointed the father of his maybe-ex-girlfriend. “Manny-”

“Oh man, what was up with that column in Amy’s paper yesterday? I’ve heard stories about Pembroke – or Captain Vul-”

“Manny!” Jake interrupted sharply. “As much as I’d love to rehash the column, and trust me, I would not, I’m actually working a case.”

“Oh sure, sorry,” Manny said. “What can I do for you?”

“I just needed to talk to someone on your Jazzy Pants task force,” Jake said. “One of my CIs OD’d today and I want to know how the investigation’s playing out, maybe there’s something we can do out of the Nine-Nine-”

“Jazzy Pants task force?” Manny said.

“Yeah, Pembroke said you guys are running it.”

“Hold on.” Jake heard muffled voices, the thump of the phone headset being set down, then finally Manny came back on. “Yeah, we don’t have a task force.”

Jake felt a weird chill, and he pressed the phone a little harder to his ear.

“Peralta?”

“I’ve gotta go,” Jake said. “Thanks, Manny.”

He hung up without waiting for a reply. Jake got up and crossed to Rosa’s desk. She was typing, but her fingers stopped when she glanced up and saw his face.

“We need to go talk to someone at Kings County,” he said.

Rosa grabbed her gun and her badge. “Let’s go.”


	12. Chapter 12

Leo James looked like hell, faced bruised all over, eyes bloodshot and swollen. The Narcan may have saved him from an overdose death, but Jake thought it was going to take a while to recover from what must have been a brutal assault.

He made Jake and Rosa close his hospital room door before he would talk. His voice was thin and rough, like he’d been strangled on top of everything else.

A cop is running Jazzy Pants, Leo told them. No, he didn’t know the cop’s name. The cop has a few mid-level street dealers on the front lines doing the actual dirty work. He promised to protect them if things turn, but one of them got freaked and snitched to Leo. Leo’s been trying to leak to Jake, but there’s been an ugly vibe on the streets, and he was nervous. He never saw the guys who took him down – it happened fast, and after they’d beat him they’d dosed him with the Jazzy Pants and left him for dead.

“Been a long time since I was this scared,” Leo said.

“Looks like you were smart to be scared,” Rosa said.

Leo nodded, and Jake patted him vaguely on the arm. What Leo had given them was huge, but Jake had no idea what to do with it, where to even begin investigating one of their own on so little information.

“We’ve got an officer watching your room. Try to get some rest.” Jake turned to leave, but Leo grabbed for him.

“Not done yet, Peralta,” he said. Leo nodded toward a chair near the door, where a stack of clothes was neatly folded. “The jacket on top. Inner pocket.”

Jake raised an eyebrow at Rosa, who shrugged. He picked up the jacket and unzipped the pocket. Inside was a Ninja Turtle figurine (Donatello, not his personal favorite). Jake held it up.

“It’s a thumbdrive,” Leo said. “Don’t know what’s on it – didn’t want to look – but it came from the guy who tipped me off. He’s dead, by the way.”

Jake closed his fist around the Ninja Turtle. “Get some sleep, Leo.”

He and Rosa swapped theories on the drive back to the precinct. They agreed that it was possible the whole thing was a lie – Jake trusted his own CI, but Leo’s information was secondhand. A story about an NYPD cop running a drug ring sounded insanely far-fetched, the stuff of urban legends. Taking bribes, sure. Shaving a little off the top of a bag of heroin, yeah, it happened. Every now and then entire kilos of cocaine went missing. But running an entire operation was another matter entirely. Rosa hypothesized it could be a former cop, maybe someone who’d worked undercover in drug enforcement. They didn’t know for sure it was even someone in the NYPD, she pointed out.

Jake didn’t say it, but he was praying that Manny wasn’t involved. It was unsettling that they’d been told the Seven-Eight had a task force. Depending on what was on the thumbdrive, that precinct was probably where they’d have to begin their search for a dirty cop.

Back at the Nine-Nine, Jake glanced at Pembroke’s office to confirm he was still out and wouldn’t be trying to Vulture this investigation away from them. His door was closed and the lights were off. Jake inserted the thumbdrive into his computer; there was only one file, and he clicked it open. 

“It’s a ledger,” Rosa said. She was leaning over his shoulder, one hand planted on his desk.

Jake scrolled through the entries – it looked like about eight months of data, starting the previous May. He pointed a finger at one of the rows. “We’ve got dates, times, addresses – looks like they were getting drops two or three times a week.”

“So that’s-” Rosa closed her eyes, lips twitching. “About 80 entries. At least.”

Jake stared at her. “How do you do that?”

“Not that hard, man.” Rosa tapped the screen. “Print this out.”

They set up shop in the briefing room, where they could use the map to pin the locations in the ledger and spread out their paperwork. Right away they figured out there were four main drops, all warehouses in or near Brownsville. They each took two addresses and got to work.

Tracking addresses to possible suspects was tedious work. Most of them led back to holding companies or developers that almost certainly had nothing to do with the drug ring – they were just unlucky enough to own under-utilized property that the dealers were basically squatting out of. One of Rosa’s warehouses turned out to have ties to a known drug cartel, which they filed away for further investigation down the line.

After a couple of hours Jake brought them bags of chips and pretzels from the break room, plus cups of disgusting vending machine mochas because the kitchen coffeemaker was broken again. An hour after that, he gave up on his warehouses and turned back to the ledger.

There were a few stray addresses they had pinned to the map but hadn’t researched yet, so he sighed and began looking them up. Most of them were small units – loft apartments, run-down artist studios – in the same neighborhood as the warehouses. One was a private storage company.

And then there was an outlier: A penthouse property in Dumbo, overlooking the river. It probably had really killer views of the Brooklyn Bridge and the Manhattan skyline.

The owner was an LLC, and the owner of the LLC was a man whose name tickled at the back of Jake’s brain – he was sure he’d seen it before but couldn’t place it. He googled the name but still nothing clicked, and then he did an image search. He glanced over the first row of photos, and sucked in a sharp breath.

“What?” Rosa looked up from her laptop.

Jake swallowed thickly, letting the pieces slot into place. “Remember the missing Rat-Dog case, a couple months ago?”

Rosa’s brows furrowed, but she nodded. “Yeah, we chased it down for the Vulture’s frat buddy.”

“Well, frat bro owns one of the drops on the ledger.” Jake spun his laptop toward Rosa and pointed to a photo of the man, his arm slung over Pembroke’s shoulders. “I think we found our cop.”

Rosa gaped at the photo for a second, then turned and locked eyes with Jake. A spark of understanding passed between them.

Jake slammed shut his laptop. Rosa began gathering up the stacks of papers they’d strewn about and Jake pulled pins out of the map. They bolted out of the briefing room, both looking toward Pembroke’s still-dark office. Jake checked the time on his phone – it was almost 8 p.m.

“What do we do?” he hissed to Rosa.

“We get out of here,” Rosa said. “Shaw’s?”

It was probably too close, but they needed to get out of the precinct now and Jake couldn’t think of anywhere else safe. He nodded and led the way.

+++

Amy glared at her notepad and the to-do list she’d been crafting for the past hour and a half. Usually lists were so soothing, sort of her go-to for coming down after a hard day, but even the perfectly shaped bullet points and the evenly spaced title letters weren’t helping her relax now. She tapped her favorite list-making pen (it was different from her note-taking pen and her just-jotting-down-thoughts pen and her supposed-to-be-taking-notes-but-actually-just-doodling pen for Terry’s monthly metro staff meetings) on her notebook and racked her brain for more things to put on her list.

She started to write “grocery shopping” – got so far as g-r-o – and then she tried to remember if she had orange soda at home and then she sighed and dropped her pen. That was the problem. Everything on her list came back to Jake.

She knew she should go home already. It was after 8, and Terry and Holt and most of the other reporters were gone; Hitchcock was still at his desk, presumably watching a live feed of a development board meeting, but his eyes had been closed for hours. As lonely as it felt here, Amy dreaded the idea of returning to her dark and empty apartment and not even having work to distract her. Not that work was helping much now.

Her email pinged, and Amy looked up hopefully – maybe someone had shot the mayor or a fire had broken out in a high-rise. But it was just Charles again.

The subject line said: “Just to confirm, neither you nor Jake said the words ‘break up.’” There was no text in the body of the email.

Amy deleted the email and looked up from her desk. Charles was watching her from his spot on the copy desk. She slid a finger slowly across her neck. He gave her an overly dramatic shrug and turned back to his computer.

Charles had figured out after witnessing several hushed conversations between Amy and Gina that something had gone down with Jake. Amy had given him the extremely condensed version of the story – that Jake was mad about Gina’s column and blaming Amy for it – and Charles had been instantly devastated. But he’d rallied an hour later and started pestering her for details. A little after noon, he’d latched onto the fact that they weren’t technically broken up because neither of them had said they were broken up.

At first Amy had found that thought somewhat comforting – it was true, after all – but eight hours later she was fed up. And it wasn’t just Charles she was fed up with. She’d realized, at some point late in the day, that her feelings about what had happened with Jake went beyond just hurt. She was angry with him. Even furious. He’d either never trusted her at all, or his faith had been so fragile, so superficial, that it couldn’t pass even the most obvious of tests.

That thought was heartbreaking and infuriariating and flat-out depressing, all at once.

Her email alert sounded again and Amy groaned and thought about marching straight to Charles’ desk and ordering him to just leave it. But when she looked at her inbox, the email wasn’t from him. And the subject line made her breath catch: “Jake Peralta.”

Amy glanced at the sender but she didn’t recognize the address: b00bman-at-hotmail. “Gross,” Amy muttered. She warily clicked it open.

“Dear Amy Santiago. Peralta has been selling the street drug Jazzy Pants. I HAVE PROOF. He also takes bribes and thinks women shouldn’t be in the NYPD. He also hates puppies AND kittens. ASK ANYONE. I can give you details.”

The email wasn’t signed, and it ended with an address and a time to meet later that night. Amy’s hands were shaking when she went to delete the email, just on reflex. Then she thought better of it and printed it out instead. She ran to the printer so no one else could grab it before her and read it again, her heart racing. When Charles popped up at her shoulder she actually yelped.

“What’s wrong?” he said, resting a hand on her shoulder. “I saw you run over here. What is that?”

“Nothing.” Amy held the printout to her chest so he couldn’t read it. “I’ve got to go.”

She hurried back to her desk and shut down her laptop, and slung her purse over her shoulder. She was just at the door when it occurred to her that she had no idea what her next move was. She needed to talk to Jake, but she was afraid if she called or texted he’d ignore her, or tell her to stay away.

“Charles?” She approached his desk with caution. “Do you happen to know where Jake is right now?”

“Oh, thank god,” Charles said, clapping his hands in delight. “I’ve actually been texting with him all day and right now he’s at Shaw’s with Rosa, and he said I definitely shouldn’t-”

But Amy was already headed back to the door. She heard him calling after her, “Yes! Go get him! Love finds a way!”

She paused just outside, feeling weirdly vulnerable, like someone was watching her. She realized she’d left her jacket inside, but she wasn’t going back for it – she already felt like she was running out of time.

Her hands were still unsteady as she called for an Uber. While she waited for the car, she peeked at the email again. She couldn’t explain why the note had triggered such an urgent, demanding sense of apprehension. There was something in the tone of it, a familiarity, that set her teeth on edge. She didn’t think it was just that Jake was the subject, though surely that was the most upsetting part.

Amy studied the email address again, and frowned. Gina’s source had emailed too. It wasn’t unusual to get tips via email, of course, but Amy had a strange feeling. She texted Gina to ask what her source’s email address was. She wasn’t expecting an answer, actually – reporters were generally very protective of anonymous sources, and rightfully so – but they’d reached a sort of truce today, and Amy hoped Gina might feel like doing her a favor.

Her heart stuttered when her cell phone buzzed in her hands. Amy looked at the screen: “b00bman-at-hotmail.” It was followed by a vomit emoji.

Amy’s car pulled up, and she yanked the door open and jumped inside. “As fast as you can,” she told the driver. He rolled his eyes at her in the rearview mirror, but the tires squealed when he took off.

+++

Jake and Rosa were at their same table at the back of Shaw’s, though with pints instead of Shirley Temples (and they’d both done a shot of whiskey, because “what the fuck, the Vulture is a drug runner now?” Rosa had said).

They’d done a bit more googling on their phones on Pembroke’s frat buddy. It wasn’t clear how friendly they were, and the photo of them was about a decade old, but the fact that Pembroke had them running cases for the guy as recently as August was pretty damning. It didn’t prove that the Vulture was associated with, much less running, the Jazzy Pants operation, but Jake knew they had enough leads to launch an investigation.

The question was what to do now.

“Go to Wuntch?” Rosa said. She was tilted back in her chair, looking cool and casual, but Jake saw the way her eyes kept darting to the front door and the exits. Shaw’s was pretty empty, which was good and bad – there weren’t any other cops around to spy on them, but they also were pretty exposed, even in the dimly lit back end of the bar.

Jake thought over Rosa’s suggestion and shook his head. “Wuntch is going to want more evidence. And she may not like Pembroke much right now, but she could still ask him about it and tip our hand. If he’s already twitchy enough to go after at least one of my CIs, no telling what he’ll do if he knows we’re onto him.”

Rosa blew her hair out of her face in a huff of frustration, but she didn’t argue with him. Jake was fidgeting with the Ninja Turtle thumbdrive, twirling it between fingers, and Rosa yanked it away and stuffed it in a jacket pocket. She shot him a glare that he read as “stop playing with the evidence, idiot.”

Jake said, “I could talk to Leo again. He might have a name he for us, maybe one of the dealers working with Pembroke.”

“Dude’s pretty scared,” Rosa said. “Even if he has a name – and that’s a big if – you think he’s going to give it up?”

“No.” Jake closed his eyes and tugged at his hair with both hands. “This is crazy. Is there seriously no one we can trust?”

“Shit.” Rosa’s chair dropped to the floor with a thud.

Jake looked up, alarmed. “What? Is he here?”

Rosa jerked her chin toward the front door. Jake spun in his chair, and it was like everything around him stopped for a moment, and just faded away. All he saw was her.

Amy’s hair was down, framing her face in dark waves, and her eyes glittered as she peered all around the room. She was biting her lip, and twisting her hands together in a nervous way. When her eyes landed on him, her face lit up for a second. And just as quickly the light was gone, replaced by a determination he recognized from their nights working together and something less familiar, a brutal sort of stoicism. His heart fluttered in his chest as she approached their table.

“Jake.” Her voice was flat, and she projected a bit so she could be heard over the music.

Jake wasn’t sure what to say (or do) – too many competing thoughts were bouncing around his head suddenly. He wanted to apologize and he wanted to tell her he still wasn’t sure. He wanted to kiss her and he wanted to send her away and he wanted to take her hand and run with her, he didn’t even care where.

Rosa cleared her throat. “I’m going to- leave.”

Amy stepped back to give Rosa room to squeeze past the table, then took her seat. She leaned forward, hands clasped together again, tightly this time so she couldn’t fidget.

“What are you doing here?” Jake said, bending toward her so he could keep his voice low.

Amy started at that, and a flash of anger creased her brow. “I thought you were done hiding,” she said, the words short and sharp.

“Amy-”

She held up a hand. “Never mind, obviously that doesn’t matter anymore. It’s not why I’m here anyway.” She pulled her purse into her lap and took out a slip of paper, which she read over first, then handed to him.

Jake squinted at the printed text in the dim light. It was an email – his name was in the subject line. As he read, he felt a hard knot form in his stomach. When he was done, he quickly folded the paper in half and then half again. He looked around the room, saw Rosa at one end of the bar and caught her eye, flagging her back to them.

“Do you know who sent it?” Jake said to Amy.

“No, but-”

“Read this,” Jake said, passing the note to Rosa as she walked up. Rosa pulled over a chair from a nearby table and straddled it, then read.

“What the hell.”

“He’s trying to pin it on me,” Jake said.

Rosa closed her eyes, crumpling the note in her fist.

“Who’s trying to pin what on you?” Amy said, looking furiously between them.

“The Vulture,” Jake said, under his breath. “Ames, I can’t explain it now, but this is bad. We need to get you out of here.”

“I don’t understand,” Amy said. “What’s he trying to pin on you?”

Jake glanced quickly around the room again before turning back to Amy. “It’s about Jazzy Pants, and I mean it, I can’t tell you everything right now. But another one of my CIs got hit today, and if he’s sending messages to you now-” He paused, because spelling it all out made it much more terrifying.

Jake felt for his gun at his side. Rosa saw him, and quickly did the same. They locked eyes and nodded.

“Jake, wait,” Amy said, sounding breathless, “what about you?”

“Rosa and I can take care of ourselves. We need to get you somewhere safe – maybe Gina, or Charles.”

“Charles is closer,” Rosa said.

“And he’s been texting me all day, so we know he’s around.” Jake stood up, grabbing his jacket from the back of his chair and shrugging it on.

“Don’t I get a say in this?” Amy said, but she stood up too, and let herself be hustled toward the front of the bar.

“We should split up,” Jake said, when they reached the door.

Rosa nodded. “My bike’s out back. Where do you want to meet?”

Jake thought it over but his mind was blank – he wouldn’t be able to think clearly until he got Amy settled. “I’ll text you, half an hour.”

Rosa took off for the back door. Jake set a hand on Amy’s lower back, but he pushed ahead of her, and opened the front door slowly so he could make sure there was no one outside, waiting for them. It was dark and deserted. Jake pulled out his phone to call them an Uber, ushering Amy along.

He said, “I’m sorry you got dragged in-”

A solid weight tackled Jake from behind. His phone flew out of his hand and he heard Amy scream. Jake thrust an elbow back, hard, and heard a satisfying grunt as he connected. He reached for his gun, and then there was a sharp, nauseating pain in his shoulder, radiating all the way down his arm. Jake fell to one knee and he was tackled again, the weight crashing into his back and knocking the wind out of him. Jake tried to kick out but he was pinned, and he couldn’t catch his breath, and then hands were pulling his arms behind his back and binding his wrists, and he groaned in pain. He turned his head, tried to find Amy, and something dark fell over his eyes and he couldn’t see a thing.

He was dragged up to his feet and tugged forward a few stumbling steps, only to be thrown again a moment later, landing hard on his shoulder. He rolled onto his back and heard doors slamming shut, felt the jerk of a vehicle taking off. Someone yanked him up so he was sitting.

He called out, “Amy!”

“I’m here!”

The relief was immediate, and followed just as quickly by terror. At least they were together, and alive. For the moment.

Jake moved his head, tried to see anything through the black veil over his eyes. “Are you okay?”

A fist punched into his stomach and Jake grunted, folding over himself. He felt the unmistakable press of a gun into the base of his skull.

Someone leaned in close to him, breath hot on the side of his face. “No more talking.” 


	13. Chapter 13

Amy was born Type A. Her family always said she came home from the hospital that way: in charge. She arrived on her due date, and within a week had established a sleep schedule that her father used to joke he could set his watch to. She insisted on feeding herself as soon as she learned how to grasp a spoon. She self-potty-trained at 18 months. She was already obsessed with dayplanners by the time she hit preschool.

Her mother said she was fiercely independent. Amy knew she was also controlling.

Which was why being blinded with her hands secured behind her, and shoved into a moving vehicle going she had no idea where, taken by people whose faces she’d never seen and voices she didn’t recognize, was her worst nightmare. Amy thought she’d literally had this nightmare before. It hadn’t ended well.

Hearing Jake call out, hearing him smacked and a voice hissing at them both to shut up, had very nearly set off a panic attack. Amy had felt her chest constricting painfully, had felt the tightness in her throat and the familiar, terrifying sense that she couldn’t draw in nearly enough air. She’d felt the cold sweat under her arms and the backs of her knees, felt the goosebumps fanning across her shoulders, felt the twist of nausea that meant she was going to be sick or pass out. She’d closed her eyes – it helped, even though she was already in the dark – and focused on every inhale and exhale, counting backward from a hundred in time with her breaths. By 50, she could think clearly again, and she could breathe.

She’d been kidnapped, she told herself, voice cool and collected in her head. Just stating the facts. Someone had pulled a cloth sack over her head. Her arms were tied behind her with something thin and biting. She was in the back of a vehicle, probably a van or a truck. Jake was with her.

That last part helped a lot. She wasn’t happy that he’d been kidnapped too, but if she had to be taken, she was glad it had been with him.

When the van stopped suddenly, Amy was tossed to the side and her shoulder connected with something cold and solid. A hand grabbed her upper arm and hauled her forward, and she felt a blast of frigid fresh air as she was pushed out the back of the vehicle. She wobbled on her feet, momentarily dizzy, but then the hand was back on her arm and dragging her again. She heard shuffling from behind and assumed Jake was there too, though she didn’t dare call out to him.

“Step up,” said a man’s voice in her ear, and Amy jerked her foot up, heel brushing against the lip of a curb or stair.

They walked forward a dozen paces and paused, and then she was hit by a wash of warmth, and the bracing, familiar smell of bleach and wood polish. A few more steps and the man stopped her, and she felt them moving – up. They were in an elevator. It stopped after several seconds, and her kidnapper pushed her out, keeping a hand on her shoulder as he guided her forward. She could smell pizza or pasta, something freshly heated and Italian. With one last shove Amy stumbled, very nearly tripping over her own feet, and then she was adrift, no one nearby that she could tell. She turned slowly around, trying to get some bearing.

The sack over her head was ripped off. Amy jumped and bit back a scream. She blinked in the sudden brightness, then squinted, eyes watering, and looked around. A tall man stood before her, greasy gray hair pulled back in a ponytail, eyes wide and black. He was holding a gun. To her left was Jake, blinking madly and looking as disoriented as Amy felt.

When his gaze fell on her, he muttered, “Thank god” and took a step toward her. The man with the gun yelled, “Don’t move.”

Jake stopped, eyes closing in frustration or anger – it was hard to tell. Amy noticed the blood then, a horrible dark stain spreading across his shoulder, visible where his jacket had fallen open. “Jake, your arm-”

“I said don’t talk,” the man with the gun said.

Jake snapped back, “You said not to move.”

“Don’t fucking mess with me.”

“Or what?” Jake turned and faced him, squaring his shoulders. “You’ll shoot us? Why bother taking us here if you were just going to shoot us?”

“Jake.” Amy hated the way her voice shook, but it carried to him, and he backed down, took a step back.

“Stop playing with the hostages,” said a new voice. Amy turned, and there was Pembroke himself, hands on his hips. “Look, we’re all gonna chat later but I’ve got some business to attend to first. So go ahead and make yourselves comfortable.”

He spread both arms out, gesturing into the room, and Amy looked around for the first time. It was a bedroom – a master bedroom, she thought – with a giant bed set against one wall, and the wall opposite made entirely of floor-to-ceiling windows. They were several stories up, and beyond the windows the Brooklyn Bridge glowed under the lights strung between its towers, and the Manhattan skyline lit up the entire night sky.

“In fact, make yourselves real comfortable,” Pembroke added, and Amy turned just in time to catch him wink hugely. She shuddered. “Rubbers are in the top drawer.”

Jake made as if to lunge for him, but the man with the gun leveled it at Amy and Jake paused in place. He was breathing hard, his face stony. Pembroke laughed and walked off, and the gunman backed up slowly and left. They heard the door lock from the other side.

Jake closed the space between them in two strides. His gaze was all over her face, and then her body, and she knew he was making sure she was okay. She could see him shaking now, the fine trembles across his shoulders. She wanted more than anything for him to wrap her in his arms, but they were both still tied up, and he was bleeding, and the last time they’d seen each other had been awful.

“I’m so sorry.” Jake ducked his head and looked her in the eye. “Are you okay? Did they hurt you?”

Amy shook her head, then nodded. Then she smiled, and she knew it was weak but it was also real. “I’m okay,” she said. “I mean, totally freaked out, but I’m fine.”

Jake closed his eyes and bent his head, touching their foreheads. “Good. That’s good.”

Amy took a deep breath, inhaling the reassuring scent of him, then pushed back, eyes going to the blood on his shirt. “You’re hurt.” She tugged at the binding on her wrists but it wouldn’t budge. “I need to get my hands free so I can take a look.”

“Turn around, let me see what we’re dealing with,” Jake said. Amy turned, and after a moment he said, “It’s a plastic zip-tie. We’re going to need scissors or a knife, something sharp.”

They looked around the room, but aside from the bed, which was covered with decorative pillows and a thick satiny comforter, there was no other furniture and nothing in sight that looked promising. An open door on the other side of the bed led to a bathroom, though. They went in together and got lucky with one of the drawers beneath the sink.

“Fingernail clippers. Gross,” Jake said.

Amy quickly opened the clippers and turned her back to him. “Turn around, I’ll do you first.”

It wasn’t easy clipping the bindings with her hands behind her back, craning her neck to try to see what she was doing in the bathroom mirror. But she got them without drawing any (more) blood. Jake groaned when he let his arms drop to his sides, and reached up to rub at his injured shoulder. Amy told him to leave it alone.

Jake snipped through her bindings easily enough with his hands free, and then he turned her around and folded her into him, arms crossing over her back and holding her close, holding her tight. She wrapped her arms around him, grabbed fistfuls of his jacket and buried her face in his chest. Suddenly she was shaking all over, and he kissed the top of her head and said, “It’s okay, it’s okay” until the trembling died away.

It was awkward for a minute when they finally broke apart, neither of them able to quite make eye contact, until Amy tugged at his uninjured arm and said, “Come on, let met get a look at you.”

She sat Jake on the edge of the bed and slowly slid off his jacket, which was sodden and tacky with blood, then bent over him, trying to get a look at the damage. Blood had stained the entire right shoulder and most of the arm of his shirt, and a thin trail dripped down his wrist and onto his hand. She looked at his back and found the wound easily enough – there was a ragged hole in his shirt, and a deep puncture just below his shoulder blade that was still oozing blood.

“You were stabbed?” she said.

Jake shrugged, then hissed in a sharp breath. “I think so. It happened pretty fast.”

“You’ve already lost a lot of blood,” Amy noted. Jake glanced down at his arm and shuddered, his face draining of color. “Not a fan of blood?”

“Is anyone?” Jake said, aghast. He closed his eyes and swallowed hard.

“Well, it’s slowed down, I think,” Amy said, trying to sound reassuring. “We need to put pressure on it.”

Jake just nodded. Amy gently helped him out of his plaid shirt but decided to leave the gray T-shirt under it, if only because he’d get cold. His skin already felt cool to the touch from blood loss.

“I think your shirt and jacket might be a loss,” she said.

Jake’s gaze had wandered down to his bloody shoulder again, but he blinked up at her then glanced down at his clothes on the floor, where Amy had dropped them.

“I love that jacket,” he said, petulant enough that Amy couldn’t help the quick smile.

“Well, it might’ve stopped the knife from going any deeper, so at least it died in the line of duty?”

Amy wondered about more serious injury – if the knife had nicked an artery, or penetrated a lung. But he was breathing okay, and though there was a lot of blood, she didn’t think he was in immediate danger. The best she could do for him was wrap the injury and hope that was enough until help arrived. If help arrived.

She went to the bathroom for a hand towel that she could use to apply pressure to the wound, and when she came back, Jake gazed up at her, eyes wary but resolute.

“I’m sorry. About everything.”

Amy met his eye for a moment, but quickly looked away. “We don’t have to do this right now.” She reached for one of the larger pillows and shook off the pillowcase, then tugged along the seam until the fabric started to split.

“When I saw what Gina wrote I just- I didn’t know what to do,” Jake said. Amy glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, saw him staring into his lap. “I was confused, and angry, and- hurt. And I blamed you.”

“It was the Vulture.” Amy tore the pillowcase in half, separating it into a long strip.

“What?”

“The Vulture gave Gina the tip,” Amy said. “He used the same email to send me that note about you.”

Jake’s eyes were huge as he gawked at her. “Oh my god. He leaked his own dirt.”

“Yeah, but I don’t get why,” Amy said.

“He was afraid I was getting close to finding out. My CI – Pembroke knew Leo was going to talk. He wanted to get me fired, or suspended at least.” Jake was shaking his head slowly. “And when that didn’t work, he emailed you.”

“So I’d write a story about you running some drug ring?” Amy scoffed and grabbed another pillowcase.

“He was getting desperate. I don’t know if he had a plan beyond screw over Peralta.”

Jake huffed a breath, and then he reached for Amy’s hand, wrapped his fingers around hers. “His plan worked, he did screw me over. Just not the way he intended,” he said, and the shame radiating off of him made Amy’s heart twist. “I really messed up.”

She squeezed his hand. “Old news, Peralta,” she said with a small smile.

“Ames-”

“Jake, as much as I want to work out all of our relationship drama, now is really not the time.”

“Relationship?” His grin was half its usual wattage, but Amy would take it.

“Seriously, save the commitment crisis for later,” Amy said, and swatted him on his uninjured shoulder.

She pressed the folded towel on top of the wound, hard enough to make him groan, and made him hold it in place while she used the pillowcase strips as a bandage, wrapping them across his chest and up and over his shoulder and arm, finally knotting the ends together. He looked down at her work when she was done, his brows knit in bemusement.

“Where did you learn how to do that?”

“I took an eight-week first aid course before my first year as an art teacher. I figured it’d come in handy with the fourth-graders.” She shrugged at him. “And you have the maturity level of a 10-year-old, so I guess I wasn’t wrong.”

Jake gave a half-baked “hey” of resentment, then frowned at her. “You taught fourth grade art?”

Amy stared at him for a long moment, then she stormed back into the bathroom for another towel to wash off at least some of the blood on his arm.

She called over her shoulder, “Wow, Jake. Just wow.”

When she came back to the room a few minutes later, Jake was slumped against the headboard, eyes closed. She froze in fear for a split second, until she saw the reassuring rise and fall of his chest.

Amy wasn’t sure if he’d passed out or was simply dozing, or if it was all the same. She checked his pulse – it felt a little too fast, but it was strong enough – then lifted his legs up onto the bed and sat beside him. He didn’t stir at all as she began to clean him up.

+++

Jake woke with a start, hand immediately flailing for his sidearm. The moan of pain was involuntary, and suddenly Amy was looming over him, forehead furrowed in concern. Jake blinked and looked around, and as it all came back he dropped his hand to his side and turned back to her, smiling sheepishly. She gave him a half-smile in return.

He sat up carefully, right arm tucked in close to his side. He didn’t remember falling asleep. “How long was I out?”

“Not long,” Amy said. She was sitting beside him, cross-legged. “Maybe 20 minutes? There’re no clocks in here and they took my phone, so.” She lifted her arms in a shrug.

Jake wiped a hand over his face and rubbed at his eyes. They’d been grabbed just after 9, and it had taken less than half an hour to get here, and they’d been locked up for maybe an hour, maybe an hour and a half. It was probably 11 or so. He was more than an hour overdue getting in touch with Rosa. She’d be looking for him by now, or trying to work out where he’d gone. Assuming Rosa was safe and not held up somewhere too, or worse.

“Sorry I passed out on you,” Jake said. He stifled a groan as he stood up, and then a rush of dizziness swept over him. He grabbed for the headboard to steady himself. He saw Amy move toward him, ready to help, but he closed his eyes and rode it out.

“You’re tired because you lost a lot of blood,” Amy said. “You should sit down.”

Jake nodded but stepped away. “In a minute.”

He went to the main door first, to confirm it was still locked. When he rattled the doorknob a voice called out to knock it off. He prowled the perimeter of the rest of the room, pausing to admire the view, and wondered how dumb it would be to try to break the windows and escape that way. It was a sheer drop, though, three or four stories down. There wasn’t even an awning to break a fall.

There wasn’t anything obvious they could use as a weapon in the bedroom, unless he planned to sneak attack Pembroke with throw pillows. He searched the bathroom next, even though they’d already looked, and came up with a travel-sized toothpaste and a used toothbrush and an old lump of soap, which was stuck to the bottom of a drawer. And condoms – they were in a top drawer, just as Pembroke had promised.

He could feel his pulse fluttering in his neck and a cold sweat breaking on his forehead as he dropped back onto the bed, just that small exertion wearing him out more than he wanted to admit. His arm was stiff from his neck to his wrist, but it didn’t hurt that much, as long as he didn’t move it.

“What’s he going to do with us?” Amy said, in a quiet, careful voice.

Jake pulled his legs up onto the bed and eased back against the headboard. She sat beside him, a pillow in her lap. He could see his own blood on her shirt, around the cuffs and up near the collar. Her makeup had smudged around her eyes, and her hair was mussed up and tangled, and Jake badly wanted to beat up the Vulture, for many reasons but mostly for making Amy look so scared.

“I don’t know. He probably doesn’t even know.”

“Will he kill us?”

Jake shook his head automatically. “I don’t think so. I’m guessing he got into the drug thing for the money, or maybe it was a power move, I don’t know. But it’s one thing running drugs. Murder’s not his style.”

“He tried to have your CI killed,” Amy said.

“Yeah, and he probably had the first one killed too, or at least knew about it. But he’d be in deep if he killed us. He’s not going to get his hands that dirty.”

“Especially not with a cop’s blood?” Amy said, and looked pointedly at his bandaged shoulder.

He gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “Especially not anyone.”

They were quiet for a while, and Amy eventually tossed the pillow on the floor and stretched out beside him, close enough that he could feel the warmth of her, but still far away. Jake wanted badly to hold her but he wasn’t sure if he was allowed, not when he sensed that she was barely keeping herself together, when a comfort from him might unravel her.

Eventually she asked him how the Vulture had known about all the dirt he’d fed to Gina – how he even knew he was the Vulture. It hadn’t occurred to Jake to wonder why, but it was obvious enough once he thought about it.

“He spies on us all the time,” Jake said. “Not like tapping our phones or anything, I don’t think. But he’s always sort of lurking. And he’s filled the precinct with his minions so he probably gets them to spy too. Plus, honestly? After a while Rosa and I didn’t really try to hide how much we hated him.”

“If things were so bad there, why’d you stay?”

“Just stubborn, I guess,” Jake said. “Rosa and I would talk about leaving, but we didn’t want to leave the Nine-Nine defenseless.”

He could feel Amy gazing at the side of his face. “That’s very responsible of you.”

“Yeah, well. The brass also kept turning down our transfer requests.”

Amy laughed, and it sounded wonderful. He realized he hadn’t heard her laugh in days – not since Saturday, which seemed like weeks ago. There was an edge of hysteria and exhaustion to her laughter now, but it was still sweet and it made him smile.

They lapsed into another silence, and Jake found his thoughts drifting. Even just sitting he was feeling lightheaded and vague, and he needed to stay focused. He looked around the room again, taking in the heavy drapes pulled to the side of the tall windows, the plush carpeting that probably felt great under bare feet, and the carved wooden headboard behind him, which definitely cost more than a month of his rent. Even the bedding felt expensive.

It dawned on him that they were probably at the penthouse – the same place he’d found in the ledger, that had led him back to Pembroke. He hoped so, because it would make it easier for Rosa to find them and get them out.

He hadn’t been lying to Amy about the Vulture probably not killing them, but it wasn’t like he could know for sure, and he hated just sitting here waiting for someone else to decide his fate.

And more than that, he hated putting Amy through this. The drug ring, the Vulture, the dead CI – none of it had anything to do with her. He knew it wasn’t his fault that she was here, but he couldn’t help the guilt all the same. She was his responsibility now. And he was going to make sure she was fine.

Beside him, Amy sighed, and when he glanced at her she was staring up at the ceiling, looking tired and annoyed.

“Let’s just get it over with,” Amy said.

Jake closed his mouth with a snap. “Get what- you mean like, sex?”

“What? No. No!” Amy stared at him, horrified. “No, I meant let’s talk. Let’s get the talking over with.”

“Oh. That.” Jake let out a long breath.

“It seems like we’re going to be here a while, and I don’t see either of us sleeping much – I mean, unless you’re tired.” Amy paused and bit her lip. “You must be tired. You know, never mind.”

“I don’t want to sleep, Ames.”

“Okay then.” Amy twisted her fingers in her lap but she didn’t say anything.

Jake cleared his throat. “I don’t know where to start. I know I said I was sorry, and I meant it-”

“You don’t trust me.”

Jake winced and closed his eyes.

“That’s where you start,” Amy said.

Jake took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He felt awful about so many things, but this was perhaps the worst. Because she was right.

“I don’t. Or I didn’t,” he said, and he felt her tense up beside him. “But Amy, that’s about me, not you.”

“I don’t understand,” Amy said. He could hear the slightest tremor in her voice, and he moved his hand toward her, wanting to touch her, to reassure. But he just let it drop, curling his hand into a loose fist on his thigh.

“You’ve never given me any reason to doubt you,” he said. “Not once. Me not trusting you – that’s my crap. That’s my abandonment issues or dad issues or I don’t know, something to do with catching my dad screwing around on my mom like nine times before I was 7.”

“That’s terrible,” Amy said, sincerely. “Also, I think that counts as dad issues.”

“Fair.” Jake sighed and forced himself to face her. “The point is, I do trust you.”

“Sure, you can say that now, after figuring out what really happened with Gina’s column,” Amy said, a hard, skeptical edge to her voice.

“Before then,” Jake said. “I mean, the second I walked out your door, I think my heart started telling me that my head was wrong. I know that sounds super cheesy, by the way.”

“So cheesy,” Amy said, and she mustered a half-smile.

“But it’s true. Look, this trust thing is hard for me – like, really, really hard. I think I trusted you all along, I just didn’t trust myself.” He took another deep breath and looked her in the eye. “The question is, after everything, do you trust me?”

Amy closed her eyes and held herself still for a long moment. Jake was starting to think she wasn’t going to answer when she finally breathed out with a sigh and said, “I don’t know.”

His heart stuttered and his gut clenched at her words. But she reached over and took his hand in hers, and her grip was warm and reassuring when she squeezed.

“I think you’re amazing,” she said. She turned toward him and touched his face with her free hand, her fingers ghosting over his brow. “I think you’re brave, and smart, and kind of a dumbass sometimes but in a really sweet way. But it’s going to take me some time to figure out the trust thing. It was so easy for you to lose faith in us. In me. And that hurt. A lot.”

Jake nodded and cast his eyes down, staring instead at their fingers intertwined. He felt Amy’s warm breath on his lips, and then she was kissing him, gentle and kind. He kissed her back. And he whispered, “I’m sorry,” his lips moving over hers, and she swallowed his words. It felt like forgiveness.

When they broke apart, he wrapped his good arm around her. She pulled up the side of the comforter and draped it over them, and then she huddled into his chest. They watched the lights twinkle in Manhattan, beautiful and untouchable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Administrative note! The number of chapters went up because I did some rearranging of things at the end. Oh, and there will be an epilogue, so I guess it'll go up to 17 at some point.


	14. Chapter 14

When the first fingers of golden light tapped the tops of the skyscrapers on the other side of river, Amy came very close to crying. The wait for sunrise had been the most maddening hours of her life, made so much worse because she had no way to tell the time. Though she had known it was irrational, the thought had crossed her mind that the sun might never come up again.

An exquisite cocktail of terror and near-panic levels of anxiety had kept her up all night, either tossing and turning on the bed, trying desperately to sleep, or else stalking around the room in a futile attempt to distract herself. Every sound from the other side of the bedroom door made her jump, and more than once she’d imagined she could see the doorknob turning. She’d been so tense that her body ached with it, muscles pulsating like an electric current was running through her.

Jake had dozed off and on for a while and finally crashed hard at some point, and she’d alternated between concern for him and bitter envy. She knew it was the blood loss and the shock of injury that made him so drowsy, but she couldn’t help feeling a twinge of abandonment that he wasn’t enduring the mental torture with her.

But she must have managed to drift off at some point, because there was finally a moment when she opened her eyes and the sky was a shade lighter. She was lying on the bed then, beside Jake, who had nestled himself into a cave of throw pillows. When the sunlight finally touched the buildings, Amy shook Jake gently, whispering at him to wake up. He grimaced and mumbled something unintelligible at her, but eventually registered that she was pointing out the windows. He pushed himself up a bit, wincing when he moved his arm, and stared.

“It’s nice,” Jake said in a sleep-scratchy voice.

“It’s the best thing I’ve ever seen,” Amy said, and she meant it.

Jake gave her a bemused look before pushing himself up so he was sitting beside her. He carefully slipped his good arm around her and kissed the top of her head, and said, “You’re the best thing I’ve ever seen.”

It was incredibly corny but Amy couldn’t help smiling. She nestled against him and turned back to the sunrise. Only when the sun was fully up, the glare of it reflected off the glass sides of the buildings and blinding them both, was the spell broken. She looked away and set her mind back on the matters at hand.

“It must be around 7,” she said. “How long do you think he plans to leave us in here?”

Jake stroked her hair, fingers catching in the tangles and tugging gently. “Can’t be much longer. We’ll both be missed in another couple hours, if Rosa hasn’t called it in already.”

“You think Rosa’s okay?”

“Of course. She’s Rosa.”

Amy could hear the false bravado in his voice but she didn’t call him on it. Instead she sighed and said, “So we’re just waiting for the cavalry. Doesn’t that make you crazy?”

“Yeah, very. What I really want is for Pembroke to open that damn door so we can kick his ass ourselves.”

They both looked over at the door, as though they could will Pembroke to appear. They slumped back together when the door stayed stubbornly closed.

“Yep. This sucks,” Jake said. He went to rub his face with his right hand and winced, biting hard on his lower lip. She noticed how pale he was, his eyes bruised-looking against his colorless cheeks.

“Let me look at your shoulder again,” Amy said, sliding out from under his arm and pushing him a bit forward.

The pillowcase strips she’d wrapped around his chest had held all night, which wasn’t surprising but she was still pleased with herself. There was a rust-colored stain the size of a dollar coin in the center of the bandage, which was a little concerning because it meant he’d bled through the towel and the pillowcases she’d used to wrap him up. Still, when she touched the spot it was dry, so it had stopped bleeding a while ago. She put her palm to his forehead, and his skin was still cool and clammy.

Jake wrapped his fingers around her wrist and pulled her hand away, kissing her palm briefly. “I’m okay.”

“Sure, except for the whole stabbing thing,” Amy said, but she humored him with a smile.

Amy got up and figured she might as well try to freshen up, if only to sweep out the cobwebs from lack of sleep. There was no way she was showering here, but she splashed water on her face and squeezed some of the toothpaste onto a finger to try to clean her teeth. Her hair was hopeless and she didn’t even have a hairband to pull it back. She supposed she could make another pillowcase strip but it seemed like too much trouble. She could feel the fatigue – physical and emotional and mental – settling in.

Jake went in after her, climbing unsteadily to his feet and half-stumbling to the bathroom. But a few minutes later he came out looking much more alert.

Which was a good thing, because that was when the bedroom door finally swung open.

+++

Pembroke was alone. He held a gun loosely at his side, and he closed the door behind him as he stepped in, his eyes sweeping the room. His gaze paused on the rumpled bed and Amy wanted to punch the smug grin off his face.

“Sorry to invade the love nest, but clock’s ticking, dodos.” He raised the gun, pointing it vaguely in their direction. “Front and center. Let’s get this over with.”

Amy exchanged a look with Jake, who nodded slightly, and they both moved around the bed to stand at the foot of it, facing the Vulture. Amy wanted to reach for Jake’s hand but Pembroke might enjoy that, and the thought made her slightly ill. Instead she squared her shoulders and looked him in the eye.

“It’s over, you know,” Jake said to Pembroke. “You panicked when you grabbed us and now you’re out of moves. There’s no way out of this.”

“Well, I can kill you,” Pembroke said, startlingly breezy.

“You wouldn’t do that.”

Pembroke shrugged. “Sure I would. Look, Peralta, you brought this on yourself. I tried getting you transferred, I tried getting you fired, and now look where we are. You said it yourself, I don’t have much of a choice.”

Jake glanced quickly at Amy, and her throat clenched at the flash of fear she saw in his eyes.

“That’s crazy, Pembroke,” Jake said. “You kill a cop and it’s really over. And you know that Amy’s got brothers on the force, and her dad. They’re not going to let it go if you do something incredibly stupid.”

“Don’t worry, I’ve got it all figured out,” Pembroke said. “See, last I heard, you two were not getting along so great. Had a big fight. There was a confrontation at Shaw’s – Detective Peralta thought his reporter girlfriend had told all his secrets, really screwed him over. They went home and he lost his head, shot her. Felt real bad about it and shot himself. Game over.”

Pembroke was waving his gun around as he explained, his voice casual like he was describing the plot of a terrible Lifetime movie. Jake’s face, though, was stormy, and he was practically vibrating beside her, his left fist curled up tight. Amy thought that at any second he was going to snap, and then it really would be all over.

She stepped in front of him and said in a rush, “You don’t have to do that.”

Pembroke raised an eyebrow, but he gave her an indulgent grin. “Yeah? Why’s that?”

Amy thought fast, grasping at the plan that was improbably unfolding in her mind. “Look, you and I, we can help each other,” she said, quickly, not giving either man a chance to interrupt. “I need a big scoop, or I’m going to lose my job. And you need to unload this drug ring – so, I don’t know, maybe you bust it up, get one of the biggest collars of the year. Think about how that’ll play. I get on the front page for a week, and you get a medal from the commissioner, and no one ever has to know the real story.”

She was breathing hard, adrenaline making her heart beat madly. Pembroke scratched at his chin.

“What about him?” he said, nodding toward Jake.

“Pay him off,” Amy said. “You’ve been running this Jazzy Pants thing for a few months, right? You can spare a little to keep him quiet.”

Pembroke nodded slowly, like he was thinking it over. Then he abruptly raised the gun, and Amy found herself staring into the barrel. Her breath caught, and she heard Jake mutter “no.”

“Wait!” Amy held up a hand and took a step forward, shaking off Jake’s hand when he reached for her arm. “Please, think it over. We could make a good team- Keith.”

Amy grit her teeth, half impressed that she’d managed to remember his name, and half appalled that she was apparently coming on to the Vulture. She forced herself to smile, though she knew it was brittle and probably made her look furious or insane, or both.

But Pembroke’s eyes weren’t on her face – they were dancing over her body, making her skin crawl. He paused at her chest and actually licked his lips.

Amy saw a flash of movement to her left and on instinct she darted to the right, and Jake threw himself at Pembroke, tackling him shoulder-first in the gut. Pembroke yelped and they hit the ground hard, Jake scrambling to stay on top as Pembroke kicked and swung at him. Amy looked around wildly and there – Pembroke’s gun was at his feet, and she dove and grabbed it. She stood just as Pembroke tossed Jake off of him, and she pointed the gun.

“Don’t fucking move.” Her voice was steady.

Pembroke sat up, moved to push himself off the floor, and Amy pulled back and released the slide on the handgun. Her eyes never left Pembroke, who stilled as he heard the click of his own weapon loading. He slowly raised his hands, palms out.

“Are you okay?” Amy said, letting her gaze slip for a second to Jake. He came carefully to his knees, clutching at his shoulder and grimacing.

“Yeah,” he said, and managed to get to his feet, though he was swaying. “I’m fine. Here, give me the gun.”

He held out a hand but Amy waved him off. “I’ve got it.”

Jake frowned at her. “Amy, come on. Don’t mess around.”

“Can you shoot left-handed?”

“What? Look-” Jake glanced at Pembroke, then stepped around him to lean in close to Amy. He said, quietly, “Amy, this is my job.”

“You can barely move your right arm,” Amy said under her breath. “And I’m platinum certified.”

Jake’s jaw dropped. “You’re what?”

“It’s not that big of a deal.” Amy knew it was a really big deal. She was the best shot of all of her brothers.

“How is that possible? Can civilians even do that?”

“Jake, are we really going to talk about this now or are you going to help me get us out of here?”

Jake looked like he was considering his options, and Amy blew out an exasperated breath.

“Fine, let’s go,” Jake said. He was cradling his arm to his chest, and Amy wondered if he’d re-injured it tackling Pembroke. She told herself it didn’t matter. This was almost over.

Amy gestured with the gun for Pembroke to stand, and he did with a glare, keeping his hands up at his sides. He walked toward the door and reached for the doorknob, but Jake stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

“Who else is here?” Jake said.

“No one,” Pembroke said. “That’s why I came in to take care of you myself. I sent my guys after Diaz and they haven’t come back.”

“Go Rosa,” Jake said softly. He kept his hand on Pembroke and turned back to Amy. “Whatever happens, keep the gun on him. Don’t lower it for a second.”

Amy gave a short nod and adjusted her grip, reminding herself that she shouldn’t hold it so tightly, that she aimed better when her hand was firm but loose.

“Also, you look great,” Jake said, and then he opened the door.

+++

Beyond the bedroom door was a short hallway that ended in another door to the left, and opened into a high-ceilinged living area on the right. Jake looked slowly in both directions, and jerked his chin toward the living room. At the far end was another door, and what Amy hoped was their way out.

The living room was dominated by a massive white leather sofa that would have been incredibly tacky if it didn’t look so comfortable. It faced toward the windows, which were floor to ceiling just as in the master bedroom. The rest of the space was sparsely decorated, though there were three massive, garish modern art pieces hanging on the wall opposite the windows.

As they made their way behind the sofa toward the door, Jake dropped back. When Amy cast him a quick, questioning frown, he said, quietly, “Let Pembroke go through first. I’ll cover our backs.”

Amy gathered he wasn’t pleased with this plan but it also didn’t seem like they had many options. They passed what was probably a coat closet, the door ajar, and from the corner of her eye she saw Jake approach it to look inside. On her right, against the back of the sofa, was a highly polished side table with a landline phone and a stack of mail, which looked so normal that it made her feel vaguely uneasy. Pembroke reached the front door – please, she thought, let it be the front door – and paused, looking back at them. His mouth twitched, just a little, and Amy’s agitation spiked.

She heard a quick intake of breath and spun around. Jake stood still, hands half in the air. From the closet stepped the pony-tailed man who’d first locked them in the bedroom. He was holding a gun to Jake’s temple.

Amy immediately grabbed Pembroke and shoved herself behind him, aiming the gun she held at the side of his head.

“Looks like we’ve got a little standoff here,” Pembroke said.

“Shut up,” Amy said. “You, drop your weapon.”

“You first,” said the man holding Jake. He was very tall and very thin, and he was shaking all over. His eyes were hugely dilated. The gun he’d pointed at Jake was wavering, from nerves or fatigue or fear – or something else, Amy couldn’t tell.

She looked at Jake and he met her eye and gave a short, sharp nod. Amy stared, wide-eyed and uncertain. Jake nodded again, more firmly. Amy clenched her teeth and took a deep breath, already hating what she had to do.

The gun was steady in her hands. In an instant, she shifted her aim and fired.

“Fuck!” The tall man dropped his gun and grabbed for his knee, blood already leaking between his fingers. He fell hard on his side and rolled onto his back, clutching his leg and screaming. Amy hadn’t been shaking before, but she was now. She’d shot someone.

Jake had dropped into a crouch as soon as the tall man had screamed, and now he was on one knee on the floor, the tall man’s gun in his left hand, covering Pembroke.

“For a second there I thought you were going to shoot me,” Jake said to Amy.

“What? Why would I shoot you?”

“I don’t know! I just thought about Speed, and shooting the hostage-”

“Shoot the hostage?” Amy spared him a look of dismay. “That doesn’t even make any sense. And also, I would never shoot you!”

“Oh wow, that is sweet but misguided. I mean, what if you had to shoot me, like there was literally no other choice-”

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” Amy said, cutting him off. “I just want to get the hell out of here.”

Jake met her eye for a moment, and it must have been clear just how close she was to the edge of hysteria because his brows dipped in concern, and when he looked back at Pembroke his eyes were dark and angry. All of the humor had left his voice when he said, “Any more surprises?”

Pembroke shook his head furiously.

“Yeah, right,” Jake said. “Ames, you keep covering Mr. Tall, although I don’t think we have to worry much about him for a while – nice shot, by the way. Pembroke, you come over here, real slow, and get on your knees next to this guy.”

Amy kept her focus on the man she had shot, who was curled around his leg and moaning. From her peripheral vision she saw Pembroke take a step toward Jake. Then he lifted his hand, just a flash of movement, and Jake yelled “stop!” There was another pop of gunfire, from Jake this time, and Pembroke fell into Amy, knocking her off balance. She kept her gun trained on the man on the ground even as she stumbled, because they were going to get out of here, no one was going to lock them up in that room again.

She ended up on her knees, gun in both hands, and Pembroke landed with a grunt just in front of her. He was holding his belly and there was blood pooling around his hands. Amy grimaced and looked away, and then Jake was crouching beside her, hand on her shoulder.

“I’m fine,” Amy said through her teeth. “Go get help.”

“Ames.”

The fear in his voice shook her and she glanced toward him, afraid to find that he’d been shot too, somehow. But he was staring at her leg. Amy followed his gaze, and for the strangest moment felt an intense urge to laugh. There was a needle sticking out of her thigh.

“Jazzy Pants?” she said, giggles bubbling in her throat.

“Probably.” Jake pulled out the needle and examined the contents. “It’s not fully depressed but you got some.”

“I feel fine.”

“It’ll take a couple minutes to hit. Amy-” He waited until she looked back at him. “You’re going to start feeling really weird, really relaxed, and I need you to stay focused, okay? I’m going to get on that phone and call for help, and I’m going to watch these guys too, but I need you to stay with me.”

“I’m fine, Jake.” She was actually starting to feel kind of great.

Jake looked pained when he reached out to rub her shoulder, but he just said, “That’s good. I’ll just be a second.”

She heard him on the phone, and his words were clear at first as he spoke to a 911 operator. But then it started to sound like he was very far away, and his voice was muffled like he was under water, or like she was. Amy was relieved when he came back to her side because she was having trouble keeping her eyes open. Jake slid the gun out of her hands and he helped her lie down. She wanted to ask what was going to happen to the bad guys, but then she couldn’t quite remember the question. She giggled to herself, feeling dreamy and untethered.

She smiled up at Jake, who was not smiling back down at her, not even looking at her, as he pressed a palm to her forehead, and stroked her hair back from her face.

“I’m sorry,” he said, so quietly she thought she might have imagined it.

There was a loud bang then and a sound of splintering wood, and a lot of people yelling and sounding very angry. And the last thing Amy saw before she finally closed her eyes was Jake, his face close enough that she could have counted the striations of brown in his eyes. He’s so beautiful, she thought, and then she was gone.

+++

The SWAT guys poured into the room yelling “Gun down and hands up! Put the fucking gun down!” and it took Jake a long moment to realize they were screaming at him, that he was the guy with the gun pointed at two bleeding men on the ground. He set it down slowly so they all could see his fingers were off the trigger and he held up his hands and then he lost his shit a little and shouted, “I’m a cop, I need Narcan right the fuck now!”

Fortunately, that was when Rosa arrived and told everyone to be cool and one of the SWAT guys kneeled next to Amy and said, “What did she take?”

“She didn’t take anything,” Jake snapped. “She was dosed with Jazzy Pants.”

He leaned close to reassure Amy that help was here, that she was going to be fine, except she was closing her eyes and wouldn’t respond to him. He picked up her hand and tried to check her pulse but he was bad at that under the best of circumstances, he could never find the right spot and he confused his own pulse for the other person’s. Only maybe Amy didn’t have a pulse anymore. He couldn’t see her chest moving, and her lips were pale, almost gray.

The SWAT guy pulled out one of the auto-loaded Narcan injectors and without a word stuck it in her thigh, close to the spot where Pembroke had given her the Jazzy Pants. Amy was going to have two bruises on that leg, Jake thought, in a detached sort of way. He rubbed her fingers in his hands and watched her chest, watched her lips, watched for any sign that she was coming back. He knew it should only take two or three minutes to work but the wait felt endless.

And then she gasped, and blinked her eyes open, and his whole body sagged in relief. Amy gazed about the room and saw Jake and tried to sit up. The SWAT guy laid a hand on her shoulder to hold her down, and a moment later two paramedics hustled to her side and dropped to their knees, unloading equipment and taking her vitals.

Jake held on to her hand, and she looked back at him, eyes huge.

“Jake?”

“You’re fine,” he said. “These guys are just going to check you out.”

Amy rolled her eyes up to the paramedic crouching near her head, and he gave her a friendly smile. The other paramedic reached toward Amy’s chest, and explained to her that they were going to unbutton her shirt, and Jake squeezed her hand.

“Sir? We need you to back up a bit,” the paramedic near her head said, and Jake was forming the “screw that” in his mouth when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

“Come on, give them space.” It was Rosa, who was probably the only person in the world who could have convinced him to let go of Amy’s hand just then. Amy had an oxygen mask over her face now and she wasn’t looking quite so scared or lost, so he swept a hand over the top of her head and said he’d be right over there, and gestured behind him, and she nodded.

Rosa helped him stand when his legs threatened to buckle and walked him to the couch and sat him down. She handed him a bottle of water – he lifted a skeptical eyebrow, because water was gross, but she just pushed it toward his mouth – and when Jake had managed a few sips, she said, “Shot or stabbed?”

Jake had no idea what she was talking about until she pointed at his shoulder, and he shrugged and winced. It felt like he’d done something bad to it when he’d tackled Pembroke, and he thought he could feel fresh blood, warm and sticky, below his armpit. “Stabbed. I’m fine.”

“Sure you are.”

Jake looked Rosa in the eye. “I was worried about you.”

“Yeah. This whole thing was messed up.”

She told him that she’d left Shaw’s without any problem – in hindsight, she thought Pembroke’s guys probably assumed she’d be leaving out the front door too, and she just got lucky that they were dumb and unprepared. When Jake hadn’t texted within an hour, and wasn’t returning her texts or calls, she’d called Charles, who hadn’t heard from him either. Rosa had gone back to Shaw’s to look around, and when she found nothing, she’d gone to the penthouse they’d connected to Pembroke and staked it out.

“Is that where we are now?” Jake said.

“Yeah. He’s not all that creative.” Rosa paused and took a drink from the water bottle. “I watched the building for over an hour, but around midnight I started losing my mind, so I called Holt.”

“Holt? As in Amy’s boss Holt?”

“Yeah, I figured he’d have her number so I could try reaching her too. And also, I wanted to tell someone what was going on, just in case.”

Jake laughed humorlessly, and when Rosa raised an eyebrow he said, “It’s just funny that after everything, you trusted a reporter before anyone with the NYPD.”

“Yeah, real funny,” Rosa said, straight-faced. “Jake, I had no clue what to do. I tried to get into the building but it’s a fucking fortress, only one way in or out, and I just kept thinking, what if you were already dead.”

Jake closed his eyes against the wave of sympathy – because as awful as it was to be held captive, he knew from experience that being the one on the outside could be so much worse. There had been no good options for Rosa. It would have been madness to try to crash the penthouse on her own, not knowing what she was up against or if Jake and Amy were even there. The one person she could trust was the same person she was trying to find. She’d been entirely alone.

When he looked back at Rosa her eyes were cast down. “You know you did everything you could-” Jake said, but she cut him off.

“Right. Anyway, I watched the penthouse for another five or six hours, until the sun started coming up,” Rosa said. “That’s when I went back to Shaw’s to get a better look in the daylight. And I found this in the gutter under a parked car.”

She pulled a phone out of her pocket, which Jake recognized right away for its Nakatomi Plaza case. The screen was smashed. Jake slid it in his pants pocket anyway.

“I’m glad you had the thumbdrive instead of me,” Jake said, thinking with a shudder what a disaster that could have been, if Pembroke had gotten his hands on the ledger.

Rosa patted her jacket pocket, and he gathered she still had it on her. She said, “After I found your phone, I knew it was bad so I finally called Wuntch. I have to give her credit, it wasn’t even 8 a.m. and she not only answered the call in her office, but she handled all the resources herself – contacted ESU, arranged the strike teams to rendezvous here. They were waiting for the warrant to clear when your 911 call came in.”

Jake nodded along as she explained. “That’s why you guys were here so fast – you were already downstairs.”

Jake thought how lucky they’d been – how lucky Amy had been. People could die from an overdose in minutes without treatment. He glanced back at Amy, who was still on the floor. Someone had bundled what looked like a towel under her head and she had a blood pressure cuff around one arm. He didn’t see an IV line, which seemed like a good sign.

“Nice job with the gut shot on Pembroke,” Rosa said, when he looked back at her.

“That was right after-” He looked back at Amy again and shrugged.

“And you took out the knee on the other guy.” Rosa sounded even more impressed by that shot.

“That wasn’t me, actually,” Jake said, smiling in spite of himself.

“Santiago?”

“Santiago.”

Rosa’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Damn.”

“Yeah, apparently she’s platinum certified?”

Rosa narrowed her eyes at him. “I don’t think that’s a thing.”

“I didn’t either!” Jake huffed a laugh and added, “You should’ve seen her try to flirt her way out of Pembroke killing us. I don’t think I’ve seen anything that awkward in my life.”

He met Rosa’s eyes, and he knew that she could tell how impressed he was, and how worried and full of guilt, too.

They sat in silence, and Jake wanted to say thank you but he knew she would hate that. His eyes kept drifting to Amy, where the paramedics were bustling around her, and he could only catch glimpses of her between their bodies and the equipment they’d lined up around her like a blockade. Around the room he was vaguely aware of other teams working on Pembroke and Mr. Tall, but he didn’t want to know how they were doing. He was tired and hurting and upset and he only had so much energy left to care, and it was all hers.

“You should let them check you out,” Rosa said quietly, but Jake just shook his head.

“Later.”

Rosa rolled her eyes a little but let it go. After another pause, she said. “Did you guys figure anything out? I mean, about what’s going on with you?”

“We were kidnapped and locked in a bedroom all night. You think we just talked about our relationship?”

Rosa seemed to consider that. “Yes.”

“Well, you are correct.” Jake sighed, and felt suddenly even more exhausted. “We did talk, but I don’t know where we ended up, honestly.”

He looked back at Amy. She looked more alert now, and she seemed to sense he was watching because she rolled her head to the side and gave him a small smile under the oxygen mask.

“Fuck it,” Jake said, and he stood up, ignored the lightheadedness, and kneeled back by her side. He thought he heard Rosa call him a dumbass, but he couldn’t be sure, and he didn’t care. He picked up Amy’s hand again and held it to his chest.


	15. Chapter 15

Amy squinted into the glittery sunlight that filtered through the trees across the street from where they sat. She could have lifted a hand and shielded her eyes, or turned her body away from the glare, but she was so comfortable for the moment and she didn’t want to move. She blinked lazily instead, letting her eyes water and her vision go slightly blurry.

Jake’s good arm was thrown over her shoulder and he’d pulled her close to his side, almost possessively. His thumb drew distracted circles on her upper arm, and the slow rise and fall of his chest was soothing, even if he hadn’t been the one to stop breathing. She was aware of Jake talking to Commissioner Wuntch, could feel the rumble of his voice from where she was pressed against him, and the journalist in her thought she should be paying attention to what they were saying, but the kidnap-slash-overdose victim really didn’t give a shit.

Waking up after the overdose had been bizarre and confusing but not painful, and there were surprisingly few side effects from either the Jazzy Pants or the Narcan. The narcotic effect had been instantly gone, replaced by a vague sort of panic, like something was wrong but she couldn’t bring herself to care. The paramedics had made her lie on the floor of the penthouse, breathing flat-tasting oxygen through a mask, until they felt confident that she wasn’t going to need another shot of the overdose antidote. Only then had they let her sit up, then stand, and finally walk out of the building with Jake.

She wasn’t sure how long they’d been outside now. Someone had led them to a bus-stop bench – Amy had distantly wondered if a bus driver might mistake them for actual riders – and blankets had been draped over their shoulders, because Jake was only wearing a T-shirt and Amy had forgotten her jacket at work and it was December, after all. When Amy had started shaking, from cold or emotion or both, Jake had reached for her without a word, pulling his blanket over both of them and tucking her head under his chin.

Now, she just wanted to stay right here on this bench, with Jake, forever. Or until she had to pee or something.

“Santiago!”

Amy looked up at the familiar voice, and saw Terry waving madly from across the street. He said something to a cop manning the perimeter that had been set up around the penthouse building, and to Amy’s surprise the cop lifted the yellow tape and let Terry duck under it. Amy felt a jolt of annoyance – cops never let reporters beyond the yellow tape at a crime scene. Or they never let her, anyway.

Terry jogged up to their bench, and right away her irritation was replaced by a flood of affection from the way he was looking at her, his brows turned down in concern. He crouched in front of her and peered into her face, and rested one large hand on her knee.

“How’re you doing?” he said, all gentle warmth. Amy’s eyes immediately filled with tears. “Hey, don’t do that, it’s okay.”

“I know,” Amy said, sniffling and trying desperately to keep herself together. Jake had stopped talking to Wuntch, who was yelling at someone in the distance, and he squeezed Amy’s shoulder. “I’m fine,” she said, to both of them. “I really am.”

Terry smiled kindly at her, then looked up at Jake and beamed. “Peralta! How are you doing, man?”

“Okay for being kidnapped and stabbed, Sarge.”

“Wait-” Amy sat up straight and looked between the two of them. “No. You two do not know each other too.”

“Sergeant Jeffords was one of my instructors in the academy,” Jake said.

“Oh no no no,” Amy said. “That is impossible. Terry’s a journalist. He’s a newspaper editor.”

“Oh! This is your editor Terry?” Jake’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Wow, I had no idea you ended up at the Bulletin.”

Amy was shaking her head slowly, her exhausted brain struggling to keep up. She said, “How did that even happen?”

“After my girls were born, there was an incident-” Terry paused, and Amy got the sense he was trying to figure out how to shorten a long, or possibly embarrassing, story. “Basically, I was too scared to do field work anymore. I tried riding the desk but it was too depressing, so I left and got into journalism instead. Terry always did love newspapers.”

“This is insane.” Amy pulled away from Jake a bit, just enough to look him in the face. “Do you literally know everyone I work with?”

Jake shook his head. “Just Gina, Charles and I guess Terry. That’s gotta be it.”

Amy spotted Holt just then, crossing the street. She looked quickly between the two of them as Holt approached, holding her breath until they were face to face. Their eyes met, and they seemed to appraise one another, and then Holt said, “Raymond Holt, editor in chief of the Bulletin. You must be Amy’s detective-friend.” And Amy let out all her breath at once.

“Holt!” Rosa appeared just beyond his shoulder. “I wasn’t expecting you here.”

“Wait, Rosa knows Holt?” Amy said to Jake.

“No, she called him last night, when she was looking for us,” Jake said.

“Yeah, and also, I’m dating his niece,” Rosa said.

Jake frowned and stared between them, and Amy was glad that apparently she wasn’t the only one feeling a little sideswiped. “Wait, so-”

“Rosa’s friend Melanie is my sister’s daughter,” Holt said. “An amusing sidenote: Rosa also dated my nephew, Marcus.”

Amy gave up then and sank into Jake’s chest, and he folded the blankets securely around her. She could feel the laughter in his chest as she smiled and closed her eyes. What a strange little family she suddenly had.

+++

Their friends dispersed once the paramedics returned from treating the more seriously injured – the Vulture and Mr. Tall, Amy thought to herself, with a slightly manic chuckle – to transport Amy and Jake to the hospital. Wuntch approached them too, Scully at her heels; he was eating chicken wings out of a bucket, which he was sharing with Hitchcock. Amy watched them dully for a moment before blinking and deciding she might still be high after all.

She looked back at the commissioner instead.

“You did good work, Peralta,” Wuntch said, arms crossed over her chest. “I knew I was right to leave you and Diaz in the Nine-Nine.”

Jake stared blankly at her, and then his eyes widened, almost comically. “Oh my god, it was you. You kept rejecting our transfer requests.”

“Someone had to keep an eye on that jerkwad.” Wuntch nodded at Amy. “Thank you for your help, Ms. Santiago. You’re not a nightmare of a person, for a journalist.”

“You’re welcome?” Amy said, but Wuntch was already stomping away.

The paramedics took them to the hospital in one ambulance, but they were separated as soon as they got to the emergency room. It happened so fast that Amy didn’t realize Jake had been taken away until she turned to ask him if she’d be getting her phone back eventually, and he was gone. Amy paused mid-step, blinking at the spot where she’d expected him to be, until the nurse escorting her to an exam room took her gently by the elbow to lead her on.

She was hooked up to a machine to monitor the oxygen in her blood and her heart rate and blood pressure – it was just a precaution, the nurse assured her – and then told to rest. She fell asleep so fast she didn’t remember the nurse leaving the room.

When she woke up, Charles was standing so close to her bed that she yelped and batted him away, which caused the oxygen clip to fly off her finger, which in turn caused an alarm to go off and a new nurse to come storming in, and it was so chaotic that Amy’s heart rate shot up and set off a different alarm. The nurse offered Amy a sedative to calm her down, but she definitely did not want any more drugs so she said no and worked on breathing deeply in between glaring at Charles.

“I’m sorry,” he said, when the nurse had finally decided Amy wasn’t about to have a heart attack and left them alone. “But Gina wanted me to check if you were awake yet.”

“Gina?” Amy said, vaguely.

“Yeah, she needs a quote.” Amy stared at him some more. “For her story. On the whole Vulture drug ring thing. And, you know, the kidnapping and-” He trailed off, and awkwardly turned his cell phone over in his hands.

“She wants a quote. From me,” Amy said. Charles nodded. “What time is it?”

Charles turned the phone up in his palm and checked the time. “About 15 minutes to deadline.”

“Wait, what? How long have I been asleep?”

“Almost six hours,” Charles said.

Amy flopped back in the bed and stared up at the ceiling. After a moment of Charles twitching in her peripheral vision she held out a hand to him. “Call Gina and give me your phone.”

+++

Not long after she talked to Gina – who told her her quotes were boring, and Amy didn’t disagree but also was too tired and foggy to care – a doctor came by and said she could go home. Charles announced that Jake had instructed him to look out for Amy and make sure she got to her apartment safely, and to stay with her overnight if she felt like she needed company. (Amy thought that Jake probably hadn’t counted on Charles telling her all of that.) She told Charles she’d be fine on her own, but she’d be happy for the ride.

First, though, she wanted to see Jake.

It was getting close to 7 by the time she left the ER and headed into the main hospital, where Jake had been admitted for the night. A uniformed cop stood across from his room on the second floor, and it was after visiting hours, so it looked like Amy wasn’t going to be allowed in. She was just gearing up for a tantrum or a panic attack – she hadn’t committed to either – when Rosa appeared with a cup of coffee in hand and told the cop that Amy would just need a few minutes. Either because Rosa was in charge or just scary, the uniform didn’t argue.

The lights were dim, and Jake’s face was mostly in shadow. He was out cold, and even in the darkness she could tell that he was still too pale, and his eyes were bruised with exhaustion. He’d changed into a hospital gown and his right arm was bound securely to his chest; he had an IV in his left forearm, but it wasn’t attached to anything at the moment.

She carefully picked up his hand and rubbed her thumb over his knuckles, then bent over and kissed him on the forehead, just above his eye. His eyelids fluttered and she was afraid, and also hopeful, that he was going to wake up, but he slept on. She stood and watched him for a while, until Rosa came in to tell her it was time to go home.

+++

Amy slept hard that night and woke at dawn. Charles was passed out on her couch when she shuffled into the kitchen; she’d conceded to him staying after she’d seen the police car parked across from her building and remembered there was still one more kidnapper on the loose. On her coffee table was a note in his familiar copy-editor print, instructing Amy to come to the 82nd precinct first thing in the morning to talk to the detectives handling the Pembroke case.

She tried calling Jake at the hospital before she left, but the phone in his room just rang and rang.

Amy figured the Eight-Two was handling the case because the Nine-Nine obviously couldn’t be trusted to investigate its own captain – so she was pleasantly surprised to find Rosa at the precinct when she showed up at 9. When she asked Rosa about it, Rosa just said, “Jake’s my partner,” and led her to a meeting room.

The interview itself was exhaustive and exhausting, and when Amy finally was set free at noon, she was tempted to go home and sleep again. She asked Rosa if Jake was coming in to be interviewed later in the week, and Rosa said he was scheduled for that afternoon.

“So he’s been released from the hospital?” Amy said.

“Yeah. This morning.”

He could have called, Amy thought. But then, she didn’t have her cell phone – the detectives on the case said they were keeping it for evidence. Maybe he already had called. Maybe he was wondering where she was too.

After that, she decided to go into work. She didn’t need to be alone.

+++

“Santiago! What are you doing here – go home!”

Terry’s yell cut through the din of the newsroom as Amy walked toward her desk. She gave him a little wave and sat down across from Gina, who leaned forward and said, in a conspiratorial whisper, “You’re such a nerd.”

“What? Gina, I literally shot a drug dealer in the kneecap yesterday and was given a nearly fatal overdose of a brand-new street drug – that is not nerd behavior.”

“Yeah, that’s pretty dope, but your FOMOW is not.”

“I do not have FOMOW,” Amy said. “What is FOMOW?”

“Whatever you say, nerd.” Gina sat back in her chair and clicked her pen. “Now c’mon, I’m writing the follow-up story today and you’ve got to give me all the deets.”

So Amy spent another hour describing the events of the day before. The detectives at the Eight-Two had asked her not to talk to any reporters, to which Rosa had actually laughed out loud, and Amy had made them no promises. She told Gina almost everything now, except for two or three details that the cops had insisted be kept out of the press, at least until they were further along in their investigation.

After she talked to Gina, Amy called Jake at home again (still no answer) then gave a couple of brief phone interviews to the Bulletin’s competitors – there was something deeply satisfying about telling the New York Times reporter that she had no further comment five minutes into their conversation – and scheduled another appearance on The Brian Lehrer Show for the next day. Her inbox was flooded by the time she found a minute to check her emails, and she clicked out of it after doing a quick search to see if Jake had sent anything.

Charles took her out for a late lunch – everyone else was on deadline, mostly writing about the Vulture takedown – and when they got back to the newsroom, Holt called for her to come to his office. Amy couldn’t resist calling Jake first; she hung up after three rings.

“Close the door,” Holt said, when Amy entered his office. Her gut did a slow roll. He only closed the door for very serious conversations.

When Amy was seated in front of his desk, he asked how she was doing, and Amy said she was tired but otherwise fine. “I’m still trying to wrap my head around everything that happened,” she said, feeling somewhat shy.

“That’s understandable,” Holt said. He studied her for a moment. “You realize I have to take you off of the police beat now.”

Amy sighed, but strangely, his words actually eased some of her tension. She was disappointed, but she’d expected this, after all. “I do, sir.”

“Santiago.” Holt folded his hands on his desk, and his face softened gradually until he looked almost affectionate. “Amy. This reassignment is not a reflection on your work. You are a most promising reporter. Your attention to detail, your persistence, and your eye for a good story are all remarkable. But what makes you stand out is your commitment to telling the full story – to exploring the gray area between the black and white.”

Amy could feel herself blushing from her forehead to her toes. She was dizzy with pride, her head buzzing from it.

“Thank you, sir. That means-“ She paused and took a deep breath. “It means everything.”

Holt nodded sagely. Then he smiled a bit and said, “Not that it’s any of my business, but I think that is why you and this detective make a good team.”

“How so?” Amy truly had no idea what he was talking about – she wasn’t even sure if she and Jake were a team anymore, romantic or otherwise. Just because they had comforted one another through a terrible ordeal didn’t mean they were together, or back together, or whatever.

“Your pursuit of the truth, and your faith that you’ll get there,” Holt said. “I don’t know your friend Detective Peralta personally, of course. But that he risked his life and his career to take down his own captain shows impressive strength of character.”

“Well, in fairness, Jake really hated Pembroke,” Amy said with a smirk.

“As well he should have.”

But Amy understood what Holt was saying, and she didn’t disagree. She supposed that she and Jake did share more than one or two key values – values that defined them, even, and that they sought and cherished in one another.

She was repeating his words over in her mind (and still basking in his praise) when Holt began tapping a pencil on his desk, snapping her out of a haze.

“Though it’s unfortunate that you got caught up in this whole drug ring boondoggle, I have to admit, it’s given us quite the advantage on this story,” Holt said, as though he were thinking out loud. “Even Wuntch has been grudgingly giving us information. And she’s basically just a skin-suit stuffed with gremlins.”

Amy stared at him, completely at a loss at how to respond to any of that. Finally she said, somewhat faintly, “You know Commissioner Wuntch?”

“She was a source of mine back when I was a reporter,” he said. “Things didn’t end as well for us as they did for you and Detective Peralta.”

Amy nodded vaguely. “I see.”

“Dismissed, Santiago.”

+++

Unfortunately, even Holt’s accolades withered under Amy’s growing anxiety over Jake. As the afternoon faded to evening, she tried to keep herself busy and distracted. She went through all of her emails, and she read every word of news coverage she could find on the Vulture situation. (The Bulletin’s coverage was the best, by a longshot.) She made a list of potential follow-up stories, most of which she wouldn’t be able to do because she was too close to it all.

At the same time, she lost count of the calls to Jake’s home and the many messages left for him at work – at the Nine-Nine and the Eight-Two. She called Rosa enough times that she started sending Amy straight to voicemail. Jake’s cell phone voicemail was full by mid-afternoon, but she kept calling anyway. She sent him multiple emails, and even stole Charles’ phone to send a few texts.

She was trying not to think worst-case scenarios. But it had been a full day since she’d seen him, longer than that since they spoke. It was hard not to worry when she felt like she was crawling out of her skin with the need to hear from him (and see him and touch him, smell him even) and yet, he hadn’t reached out to her. Her desk phone had been ringing all afternoon, and in fairness, she hadn’t been able to pick up every time, but not once was it Jake’s voice on the other end. The rise and fall of hope each time she answered was making her physically ill.

By 7:30 it was starting to hit her that she was going to have to endure this stress at home, alone, when the new copy desk intern approached her desk, his face flushed and splotchy like he was incredibly nervous. She wanted to take pity on him but she couldn’t call up the energy, so she just looked up at him expectantly.

“Amy Santiago?” His voice cracked – on both names.

“That’s me,” Amy said with a sigh.

“Uh, hi.” Beads of sweat were pearling on the poor kid’s forehead. “I’m such a huge fan, your story on the jail recordings was awesome, and I just know you’re going to write something amazing about, you know, this drug stuff.”

“Well- thanks,” Amy said, genuinely touched.

“Anyway, I- I took down this message for you earlier, and then I forgot-” He held out a slip of paper torn from a reporter’s notebook, and Amy snatched it from his hand so quickly he jumped.

“A message? From today? Why are you just giving it to me now?” But Amy ignored his reply and read the note.

It said, “Meet at the park. 7 p.m.”

Amy grabbed her jacket and her purse and raced for the door. She heard the intern calling after her and thought she should have at least asked his name. But then again he’d sat on a message from Jake for who knew how long, so the kid was basically dead to her.

She ran outside and practically jumped in front of the first cab she saw, planting her hands on the hood and then pulling open the passenger door before even checking to see if it was available.

“The park!” Amy called through the glass partition. When the driver just raised an eyebrow at her in the rearview mirror she nearly growled. “Fort Greene. By the way, I shot a man yesterday. Make it fast.”


	16. Chapter 16

Jake’s butt was getting numb. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been sitting on the damp plastic steps of the Fort Greene play structure, but it was long enough that he’d mostly stopped shivering and he couldn’t feel his toes and his fingers were stiff and achy. He’d forgotten to grab a scarf so his chin and lips and cheeks were frozen with cold too and even if Amy showed up after all, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to form words to tell her – well, he didn’t know what, just yet.

She’d been the first thought on his mind when he’d woken up in the hospital that morning, clear-headed from a solid 12 hours of sleep but cranky with pain and desperate to go home and shower, put on clothes that weren’t blood-stained, and talk to Amy – definitely not in that order. But when he tried to call Amy her cell phone went straight to voicemail, and he realized he didn’t even know if she had a landline.

He’d spent the morning talking to doctors and cops. The doctors told him he had mostly soft-tissue damage from the stabbing and he’d be just fine as long as he took it easy for a few weeks. Still, the wound had been deep, and he’d apparently lost about 20% of his blood supply, which was horrifying and not something Jake ever wanted to think about again. So it took longer than he expected to talk his way into being discharged. And even after the doctors had gotten on board, he’d had to clear his release with the commissioner’s office too, because apparently the brass thought he might need a security detail at home.

He finally got back to his place mid-morning, and by then he’d been told that Amy was at the Eight-Two for her interview. He figured if he skipped the shower – it was going to be a pain in the ass anyway with his arm bandaged up – he could get an Uber there and meet Amy when she was done, maybe get lunch together.

But instead he’d been called down to the commissioner’s office for a meeting, and he hadn’t made it to the Eight-Two until long after lunch time. He’d been fighting a vicious caffeine-withdrawal headache by then and he’d actually snarled at Rosa when she’d reminded him that he should call Amy sometime.

His interview, of course, had taken hours. They told him that Pembroke was going to make a full recovery, along with Mr. Tall, and Jake was relieved mostly for Amy’s sake, because shooting someone was a lot to deal with. The third man, who’d helped kidnap Jake and Amy and who really had been out hunting for Rosa when all hell broke loose, had been arrested around noon. The detectives on the case thought they were the only three involved but were still investigating. Pembroke’s frat buddy looked to be an unwitting accomplice.

Jake had called the Bulletin during breaks in his interview, but somehow never managed to get Amy at her desk. By the time he’d been cut loose, and it had been dark outside and Rosa had given him a deeply sympathetic look and asked if he wanted to get dinner, he was frantic to find Amy. So he told Rosa he had plans, and he left a message for Amy with the first person who answered the phone in the Bulletin newsroom.

After everything they’d been through over the past 24 hours – hell, the previous two or three days – not being able to check in with her felt like a physical pain. He knew that Amy was okay, but he needed to see her and hear her voice. Even if she was only going to tell him that she couldn’t trust him after all, and maybe it wasn’t going to work out.

And now he was probably going to die of hypothermia at this park, waiting for her to never arrive. He thought about whether some little kids would find his body frozen to their plastic play castle first thing in the morning. That’d be either crazy traumatic or super dope. For them – for Jake it would just be pathetic. The Bulletin would probably run a really tacky headline over his obituary.

Jake squeezed his fingers into a fist to try to warm them and stomped his feet. He supposed it was possible she just hadn’t gotten the message. The kid who’d answered the phone had sounded about 12 and maybe didn’t even know how to read and write, though that seemed unlikely for someone who worked at a newspaper. Jake wondered, if Amy didn’t show up, what his next move would be. Maybe she needed space. Maybe she was scarred by all that had happened and avoiding him because he was part of it. Maybe she was just ghosting him. That didn’t seem like something Amy would do, but he wouldn’t exactly blame her, not after everything he’d put her through.

And with that morose thought, he propped his forehead in his hand and settled in to stare at his feet and contemplate a life of brutal loneliness and self-recrimination, until he either froze solid or gave up and went home to watch Nailed It! and eat cheese out of a tube.

“Jake!”

He snapped to attention so fast that he wrenched his shoulder, but he ignored the pain and stood on legs that felt creaky with cold and peered out into the dark playground. He couldn’t see anything at first, and was just starting to think he’d imagined her calling his name, when he caught a flash of movement at the edge of the trees, and then she was sprinting toward him, hair flying loose behind her. She stumbled when she hit the sand, tripped forward several steps, and grabbed for the rail at the bottom of Jake’s stairs.

She stopped there, face turned up to his. Even in the dark he could see that her cheeks were flushed pink, and her eyes were black and fathomless.

“You’re here,” she said, panting. “I was afraid you would have given up by now.”

“I would have stayed all night.”

Amy smiled, shy and beguiling, and tucked her hair behind her ears. She climbed up a step and he climbed down, and they paused there, a step apart, eyes locked on one another but neither making the next move. Jake reached out with his left hand to take one flyaway strand of her hair between his fingers, tugging lightly on it before letting go.

“I tried reaching you all day,” Amy said. “I couldn’t find you, and I was afraid-” She stopped, glanced away.

“Of what?”

“I don’t know. I was just afraid.” Amy narrowed her eyes at him suddenly. “Just to be clear: You didn’t call me out here to dump me because your job is too dangerous and you’re afraid of me getting hurt again. Right? Because that would be so cliche and wrong.”

Jake couldn’t help the bark of incredulous laughter. “Uh, no – if anything I might try to talk you into becoming a cop because you’re so badass.”

Amy laughed too, and for a moment everything felt good. Then Amy’s face slowly went serious and he recognized the troubled furrow of her brow.

“Are you okay?” she said, and her eyes wandered over his body, making his skin tingle even in the cold. “I mean, you’re out of the hospital, so I guess you must be.”

“I’m fine.” He nodded toward his right arm, which was tucked in a sling under his coat, the sleeve hanging empty at his side. “The doctors said your first aid bandaging probably saved the arm.”

“What? Really?”

Jake chuckled and scratched at his chin. “Not really. But they did say that you probably saved me a transfusion, so that’s something.” It was his turn now, and he searched her face before saying, “What about you? Are you all right?”

“Yeah. It’s a little weird, actually – I’m totally fine,” Amy said. “You’d think that almost dying would have a few more side effects.”

Jake felt his heart stutter at the mention of her near-death and swallowed thickly, his throat suddenly dry. “You’d think.”

Amy must have heard the catch in his voice, because she lifted her head to meet his eyes and said, “Jake, I really am okay.”

He nodded, unable for a moment to find his voice. He sat on the stairs and blinked away the image of her too-pale face, of her eyes fluttering closed, and tried not think about the could-have-beens. Amy sat beside him and pressed her shoulder to his, clasping her hands between her thighs. He reveled in that for a moment, just having her here with him, and safe.

Jake took a deep breath. “So, I know that after our big, dumb, terrible fight, which was totally my fault by the way, and then the kidnapping and all the shooting and the mortal terror and you actually dying for a minute…I probably owe you some big romantic gesture. But I’ve kind of been in meetings all day and there was so much paperwork and not to be a baby or anything but my arm hurts, like, a lot. And I just kind of never got around to the whole gesture thing. I got as far as we should meet at the park and then-”

He trailed off and raised his arms as best he could in defeat.

He could feel her eyes on the side of his face, and when he turned to look at her she was biting her lip, and her eyes were shining.

“Jake, I don’t need a big romantic gesture,” she said. “Although for the record? This is pretty romantic.”

Jake smiled at her, feeling vulnerable and a little embarrassed but also ridiculously happy. He reached for her hands, and they were warm as they wrapped around his fingers. He leaned into her and kissed her, gentle and hesitant. Her lips were cold and a little chapped, and she tasted faintly of cherry chaptstick. He could feel her mouth curl into a smile and he started to back away, happy for just this, when she grabbed at the lapel of his jacket and pulled him back into her. She crushed her mouth to his, lips parting, tongue darting out to taste, and now she wasn’t cold at all, she was warm and soft and inviting. Her hand moved to cup the back of his neck, and his hand slid under her jacket to the small of her back, and he tilted his head just slightly and opened his mouth to hers, and they kissed until his whole body felt flushed.

He could have made out with her on the playground stairs for hours, but eventually he broke off to kiss the corner of her mouth and her nose and her chin, and her skin was freezing and he realized she was shaking all over, and that he was too. He chuckled and wrapped his arm around her shoulders to fold her into his chest, rubbing his hand up and down her back to warm her.

“Why is it always so cold in this park?” Amy muttered into his shirt.

He laughed again and said, “Let’s get out of here,” and they got up together, both fumbling a little on freezing legs.

They walked toward his place without talking about it, his arm still tucked around her shoulders. His stomach grumbled loud enough that she could hear it, and they agreed to grab takeout from a Thai place on the way.

“So,” Amy said, as they shivered waiting for the light to turn green on Myrtle, “I sort of lost my job today.”

“What?” Jake said, loud and outraged enough to startle a woman walking behind them with a cat on a leash. The woman glared and the cat hissed.

“Oh no, sorry, it’s not that bad – Holt just took me off the police beat,” Amy said. She smiled shyly at him. “Actually, it’s not bad at all. Terry said they want me to be their main investigative reporter now. It’s kind of a promotion.”

Jake beamed at her and kissed her. “That’s amazing.”

“It is,” she agreed, and they went to cross the street. “You know, I feel a little bad that I’m getting all the attention for this whole thing with the Vulture. My google alert is going crazy.”

“You have a google alert on your own name?”

“Everyone should,” Amy said. “It’s like knowing your credit score.”

“Um-”

“I don’t want to hear it,” Amy said, “Anyway, the point is, I’m getting all the credit, and it’s like no one even knows your name.”

“Good,” Jake said. At Amy’s frown he added, “You know I never liked that kind of attention. And I like undercover work. If my name and face get out there too much I can’t really do my job, you know? Anyway, I’m actually getting plenty of credit. In fact, the commissioner says she’s giving me a Medal of Valor.”

“Wow, Jake. That’s huge,” Amy said, and he grinned.

“Yeah, and there’ll be a whole ceremony for it, with a party and everything.” He gave her a side glance, then quickly looked ahead again. “I mean, nothing fancy, but, you know, hors d'oeuvres, maybe some music.”

He could feel Amy studying him. “Passed or buffet hors d'oeuvres?”

“Which is fancier?”

“Passed.”

“Then definitely buffet.”

“Live band or DJ?”

“For sure DJ.”

“Yeah, that sounds not fancy at all,” Amy said with a heavy sigh.

“So like, if I wanted to bring a date to this thing, you probably wouldn’t want to go.”

“I mean, will it be held somewhere really special? Like the New York Public Library?”

“Nope.” Jake bit his lip to keep from smiling.

They arrived at the Thai restaurant and stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. A man walking behind them cursed under his breath and veered around them, and a jogger side-stepped into the gutter and gave them the finger, and they held their ground and faced each other, and Jake was sure his dopey grin matched hers perfectly. He took her hand and pressed her palm to his chest.

“Amy Santiago, will you go to a super not-fancy, low-rent commendation ceremony with me?”

Amy glanced up into the night sky, as though deep in thought. “Will you be in uniform?”

He nodded, and she smiled slyly at him.

“Jake Peralta, I will go to your commendation ceremony,” she said, and went up on her toes to kiss him.

+++

Amy took the plastic bags of Thai takeout from Jake and looped them over her left arm, so they could walk the rest of the way holding hands. Jake raised an eyebrow and smirked a little but he didn’t say anything or go all macho and try to take the bags back, and that was just one of so many reasons he was a good man, she decided.

They didn’t talk much, because it was cold and they were both tired. And even if a day or two ago Amy had thought there was a lot for them to work through, now?

Now, she thought, ‘I trust this man.’ And she thought, ‘I might love this man.’

That thought – it should have surprised her, and she turned it around in her head and looked at it from a few different angles and found that it didn’t. Jake had trusted her for months now, she realized. From the day they met. He’d trusted her before she’d even trusted herself, and he’d believed in her and had her back in more ways than she ever could have asked for or expected. She should tell him this, and maybe she would, later. But words were overrated, she thought. (The irony was not lost on her.)

Amy let it soak in a bit, this love thing. She could feel it settle warm in her belly and in her chest, and in the smile she knew was lighting up her face. She squeezed Jake’s hand and nestled into his side, and he pressed a sweet kiss to the top of her head. She felt it to the tips of her fingers and her toes and when she shivered, it wasn’t from the cold. It was from knowing that this man – this ridiculous, imperfect, improbable man – was taking her home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end! (Sort of. I'll be posting an epilogue in a couple days, but this was the official ending once upon a time.)
> 
> Thank you again to my amazing beta @fezzle/@drowninginmyworries, who gave me such excellent guidance on this fic, and who held my hand when I panicked during the revising and posting of it, and who has become such a dear friend along the way. 
> 
> And THANK YOU so much to everyone who read this story, who left kudos and especially the folks who commented. Your kind and generous feedback meant so much to me -- you made me laugh, you literally made me cry a few times, and sometimes you even gave me a new perspective on my own story. You all are amazing.


	17. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is discussion of symptoms of post-traumatic stress in this epilogue. It's nothing too dramatic, I don't think, but I wanted to note it for anyone who is sensitive to the topic. Please take care of yourselves, readers.

Jake was right – the ceremony was no New York Public Library gala. The room was decorated with wilted streamers and a few drooping mylar balloons, and it had a stale high-school cafeteria aroma. All of the appetizers plus the sparkling cider – which was definitely not Champagne – were an unappealing room temperature. The metal folding chairs were stiff and unforgiving, and Amy’s butt was falling asleep.

But as she sat in the front row among the cops and politicians who made up the bulk of the audience, as she watched Jake stand square-shouldered in his dress blues – as the commissioner thanked him for his bravery and hung the Medal of Honor over his chest – Amy blinked back tears and thought: This is exactly right.

An elbow nudged her gently, and Amy looked down to find a tissue pushed discreetly into her hand. She glanced to her right and caught Melanie’s eye.

“I won’t tell if you won’t,” Melanie whispered, quickly brushing a stray tear from the corner of her own eye.

Amy looked back at the stage, where Rosa was now getting her medal, and she saw the barely-there smirk on Jake’s face as he caught her eye.

“I think they’re onto us anyway,” she muttered to Melanie, and they both laughed under their breath and dabbed at their eyes.

+++

The weeks after they’d been kidnapped had been rough.

It started a day or two after she’d gone back to work. At first Amy noticed that she startled easily. Car alarms, the bang of a door slamming shut, the thud of a stack of newspapers dropped on a newsroom desk – any loud, sudden noise made her heart race and her breath catch in her chest. She thought it was lack of sleep or stress about work, then Charles came up behind her one day at the copy machine and she was so surprised – so scared – that she elbowed him in the gut and very nearly stomped on his hand when he fell to his knees. Terry took her aside after that and gently suggested she take some time off. Later he slid a business card into her hand and said it was his own therapist, and Amy should make an appointment.

She dismissed his concerns at first, but then she called in sick two days in a row when it was too cold to walk and the thought of getting on the subway, surrounded by the noisy chaos of too many strangers packed into a too-small space, sent her into a panic. So she called the therapist, and after one nerve-racking visit she was diagnosed with acute stress disorder.

Though Amy knew it wasn’t logical she felt instantly, deeply ashamed. She told herself that she couldn’t be traumatized, that she’d come through it all fine, no injuries, barely even a bruise. So she’d been scared for a few hours – they’d been held in a penthouse suite the whole time, lounging on a king-sized bed with silk sheets and embroidered throw pillows.

But she couldn’t stop feeling scared, and sometimes she couldn’t stop crying, and sometimes she felt so angry that her blood pulsed in her temples and her neck. The worst was when she was overwhelmed or overstimulated and seemed to float out of her own body, like the real world was slipping away while she stood by, cotton-headed and paralyzed. Her therapist called it dissociation. She said it was normal. It made Amy feel like she was losing her mind.

Jake figured out pretty quickly what was going on, and he told her it was understandable that she had post traumatic stress, that he’d been there too, in the past. He was gentle with her and he validated every one of her roller coaster emotions and he didn’t judge her or patronize her. And when she threw him out of her apartment one night because she fucking needed to be alone, she texted him an hour later and he was at her door instantly, because he’d stayed in the hallway the whole time, waiting for her to come back to him.

After that they talked about trust some more, because it always seemed to come back to trust between them. Amy realized she needed to trust that she could lean on Jake, that he wasn’t going to break and neither was she if she let him take care of her sometimes. And Jake realized he needed to trust Amy when she said it was time to handle things on her own. Amy knew she’d gotten the easier deal, because she couldn’t imagine watching Jake hurt and letting him go.

But it had been eight weeks since the Vulture. Amy could take the subway to work again. She didn’t jump out of her skin every time a taxi honked or Gina suddenly swore at someone on the phone. She still sometimes cried in the shower for no obvious reason, but she hadn’t yelled at Jake since that one night.

And Jake – he was so good. They were great.

+++

Jake and Rosa were swarmed by reporters as they walked off the stage after the ceremony. Normally this kind of commendation wouldn’t get any media attention, but the Vulture story was still huge, and now every local publication was present. Amy spotted Hitchcock in the fray – he was pretty much the only person on the Bulletin staff without any ties to Jake, at this point – and also Adrian Pimento, their new photographer. Pimento was a talented shooter but had a tendency to go rogue on his assignments. Amy avoided working with him.

Amy and Melanie watched with amusement as their significant others braved the throngs, and Amy couldn’t help the flush of pride at how Jake handled himself. She’d drilled him over the weekend on how to handle the press, and the practice seemed to be paying off. She could read the signs of stress in the fine lines between his eyebrows and around his mouth, but to a casual observer he would look courteous and professional. Rosa, on the other hand, was standing just behind his shoulder and scowling. Amy couldn’t hear what either of them was saying, but every now and then she saw Rosa frown even more deeply and respond with a “no comment” Amy could read from across the room.

When they finally broke free, they bee-lined for Amy and Melanie and both couples exchanged the briefest of cheek-kisses before everyone seemed to deflate with relief and the simple joy of being on their own in the crowd.

“I still can’t believe we got the same medal when only one of us was kidnapped and stabbed,” Jake said to Rosa, who smirked at him.

“Not my fault you got your ass captured,” Rosa said, and turned to Amy. “No offense.”

“None taken,” Amy said. “But if anyone should be annoyed, it’s the woman who helped take down the Vulture and got kidnapped and nearly died and isn’t getting any medal at all.”

Everyone laughed and Jake gave her a quick one-armed hug. Melanie said, “I thought there were rumors that the mayor was going to give you some kind of civilian commendation?”

“Yeah, but probably not after that piece on the mayor’s slush fund she wrote last week,” Rosa said.

“Plus, she’d never take a commendation from the mayor,” Jake added. When everyone glanced at him he shrugged and said, “Conflict of interest. Right, babe?”

Amy just beamed at him and said, “You do know me.”

+++

Amy had met Jake’s mom the weekend after the kidnapping, when she had a well-timed lull between breakdowns and Karen came by Jake’s apartment with a bag of frozen meals to get him through the couple of weeks his arm would be in the sling. Jake had met Amy’s dad and the rest of her brothers over Christmas. They both made great first impressions – Amy because Karen was kind and sweet-natured and basically impossible to scare off, and Jake because her family had decided he had saved Amy’s life, despite Jake insisting that it was mostly the other way around.

She’d been exhausted after the holidays, burned out on anxiety and too much family, and they spent New Year’s Eve in her bed, watching old TV blooper reels and favorite SNL sketches on their phones until they both drifted off, well before midnight. And Amy thought if it was true that how one spent the last hours of the old year would be echoed in the new year, she was all right with that.

They mostly stayed holed up in her apartment or Jake’s after that, though they met Rosa and Melanie for drinks more than once. Those two were an odd but charming couple, a sweet-and-sour combination that clearly brought out the best in both of them. Melanie was warm and easy to just be with, even when Amy felt socially exhausted. And Amy found in Rosa a surprising ally as she worked through her issues, because Rosa was an attentive listener and also brutally no-nonsense. Sometimes Amy needed to spiral a little bit, but sometimes she needed someone to shut her down, or to help her put things in perspective.

“I’m just tired of having a panic attack every time the Uber Eats guy buzzes my apartment,” Amy said morosely one night at Shaw’s, when it was just the two of them at a table while Jake and Melanie dueled over darts.

“Yeah, it’s ridiculous,” Rosa said.

Amy froze. She was getting used to Rosa’s bluntness, but there was blunt and then there was insensitive. “I mean, I wouldn’t say I’m ridiculous-”

“Not you,” Rosa said. “Our brains are wired to turn trauma into chronic stress sometimes. It’s dumb. I hate it.”

Amy stared at her, mouth agape, because it wasn’t every day a revelation was dropped in her lap. “Yeah,” she said. “It is dumb.”

+++

Jake slipped Amy’s glass of (flat) sparkling cider from her hand and set it on the tray of a passing waiter. Then he turned and offered her his arm.

“Time to mingle?” he said.

And it was a small gesture, but it made Amy’s heart rush to loop her hand over his bicep and let him escort her toward the crowd. Rosa rolled her eyes as he led her away, but Melanie gave them a playful wave and mouthed “good luck.”

“So now I’m just arm candy?” Amy said to him.

“Always. Wait- never,” Jake said. “Is that a trick question?” She could hear the smirk in his voice.

They hadn’t actually discussed that this would be their first big outing as a couple. Somehow, despite all the press around the Vulture and countless interviews with Amy (and a few with Jake) and multiple in-depth stories about the night they’d been kidnapped, the fact that they were dating had not been made public. Amy wasn’t sure why anyone who wasn’t family or friend would care at this point. Still, given their history, she’d expected Jake to be nervous about coming out.

But his only reservations in the days leading up to the ceremony had been for her sake – making sure that she was going to be okay with all of the people and the socializing. They’d walked into the venue hand-in-hand, Jake in his crisp uniform and Amy in a wintery-green day dress. She’d felt a flutter of nerves in her belly, but only for a moment, and he’d pressed her fingers as if he sensed she needed the reassurance. They’d met up with Rosa and Melanie inside, and Jake had found Amy a seat and he’d stayed by her side until the ceremony began, and she wasn’t sure if his attentiveness was out of concern or affection or both, but she appreciated it all the same.

Now, as they moved through the celebratory mob, Jake was enthusiastic with his introductions. Amy met men and women he’d been in the academy with, and former partners and mentors from before his time under the Vulture. Everyone seemed to have a story about Jake to share – some prank he’d pulled, an amazing solve he’d made, how if anyone was going to take down a captain they would have put their money on Peralta. There were also an alarming number of stories about horrible bouts of food poisoning, and Jake apparently had a bizarre tendency to accidentally pants people. She thought that was some kind of running joke until she caught Jake blushing furiously after the third story.

After a while they found themselves surrounded by a few high-ranking officers, stumbling over each other to congratulate Jake and make some comment about how they’d always had doubts about Pembroke, which was as hilarious as it was insulting because men like the Vulture didn’t climb the NYPD ladder without support from the top. Jake introduced her to his new captain too, a man who insisted she call him CJ, and who seemed pleasant enough; both Jake and Rosa had said the jury was still out.

Amy was glancing around the cluster of brass, thinking how odd it was to be standing with so many gray-haired white men who looked the same, when she noticed a faint buzzing in her ears and a tingling in her fingertips – signs of an impending dissociation. She fought it for a moment, impulsively chastising herself for becoming overwhelmed in such a non-threatening place, but then she reminded herself that it wasn’t her fault and she wasn’t alone. She was still holding onto Jake, and she squeezed his arm slightly. He glanced at her and must have recognized something on her face, because he interrupted his captain, and with barely an “excuse us, sir” he led Amy away.

He took her to a quiet corner of the room, where they could watch the clutches of people talking and laughing, wait staff slipping in between to pick up used glasses and plates. A DJ set up near the stage was playing something Amy couldn’t quite make out. Jake slipped behind her and tucked his arms around her waist, holding her to him. She felt him kiss the top of her head, felt his thumbs rub over her knuckles, felt his chest solid and reassuring against her back. She leaned into him and breathed through the anxiety. Keeping herself in the moment. Letting him ground her.

When she felt like herself again, she closed her hands over his briefly, and turned in his arms to face him. He gave her a careful smile, and she nodded back at him that she was okay – because she was, truly.

She let her eyes fall to the star-shaped medal on his chest, and she reached for it, holding it in the palm of her hand. It was heavier than she’d expected, and cool to the touch. She ran a thumb over the points of the star.

“You realize,” she said, now tracing the engraving with the tip of a finger, “I’m going to need you to wear this all night.”

She looked up at him with a coy smile, expecting a flirty smirk in return, or a whispered suggestion of what else the night would bring. Instead, the smile he gave her was soft, even wistful, and the warmth in his eyes made her stomach do a slow flip.

“You realize that I’m in love with you,” he said.

Amy felt her cheeks flush, felt the warm rush of tears in her eyes, and she nodded, because yes, she did know. She’d felt the same for a while now, and maybe it had been petty of her but she’d needed him to say it first. She thought maybe they’d both needed that.

“I know,” she said, when she thought she could trust her voice. She brought her hands up around his neck, felt his hands at her back, pulling her a little closer. “I love you too.”

The kiss was just a brush of their lips, but also a promise.

+++

Rosa and Melanie came up not long after, Rosa complaining that she was straight-up insulted that there was no open bar. “Can we leave for your mom’s now?” she said.

Jake pulled out his phone and glanced at the time, and he noted that they would be a little early to the after-party that Karen was hosting but she wouldn’t mind.

“Thank god, I’m starving,” Melanie said, ditching a plate filled with half-eaten appetizers on a side table as the four of them headed toward an exit near the stage.

“We might want to stop somewhere for a snack first – Charles arranged the catering,” Rosa said.

“Smart,” Melanie said.

They disappeared into the lobby, Amy and Jake right behind, but Jake paused when someone called out his name. Amy turned, and it took her a moment to recognize the man jogging toward them, an anxious smile on his face – he ran a new Brooklyn newsletter-slash-gossip blog. She’d seen him at a few recent press events. She thought his name was Teddy.

“Can I get a photo?” maybe-Teddy said, addressing both of them.

Amy opened her mouth to say no, but Jake was faster, and he said, “Sure” and slid an arm around her waist, pulling her to his side. Teddy grinned and lifted his phone, and just before he snapped the picture Jake turned and planted a kiss on the corner of Amy’s mouth. It was sweet and it was chaste but it was also a kiss, and Amy blinked in surprise as Jake pulled away with a sheepish smile.

The photo ran on the top of Teddy’s blog that night. Two days after that, Amy found a printed-out copy of it on Jake’s refrigerator, under a Donatello magnet. The image was slightly out of focus, and the quality of the black-and-white print was not good, but it was impossible not to see the warmth and the love between them. Jake’s eyes were closed, his lips curved into the hint of a smile against her mouth, and Amy looked like she was a breath away from laughing, utterly charmed by her impulsive boyfriend.

“It’s not the first time we made news together,” Jake told her, when Amy asked why he’d put the photo on display. “But it’s the best.”

Amy told him that was the cheesiest thing he’d ever said and she was never going to let him forget it, and he said, “Promise?” And she kissed him.

The photo ended up on Amy’s refrigerator when Jake moved in with her six months later. She laminated it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I write this epilogue because Amy and Jake deserved an "I love you" moment? Yes, I did.
> 
> And that, officially, is the end. <3


End file.
